


Trois Étés

by tomlindrugs



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Harry, Coming of Age, Complicated Relationships, Crush at First Sight, Enemies to Lovers, Existential Crisis, France (Country), Lots of wine, M/M, Made up city, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Mommy Issues, Sexuality Crisis, Spain, Suicide Attempt, Summer Love, Top Louis, Verbal Abuse, a bunch of precocious teenagers, alternate universe - L and H are french, and milk, at least in the beginning, don't expect the rivalry to last very long, enjoy, for anyone wondering their age gap is the same irl, harry cries a lot, harry goes from being freud's biggest admirer to his biggest hater, it's offscreen though, lots of it i'm sorry, louis' siblings sort of steal the show at first, louis' sort of a dick at first, major trigger warning ahead, nothing too hardcore when they're still underage though, quality family time, still off-screen, that's practically all there is, the sun might as well be a minor character, they do stuff with milk, what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 90,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26147479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomlindrugs/pseuds/tomlindrugs
Summary: It's summer.Harry’s fourteen, fifteen, and then twenty years old.On holiday, at the fragile age when everything’s at stake, he meets Louis, an older boy he quickly develops an almost unhealthy admiration for. And by his side, under his touch, Harry doesn’t feel so small anymore.On the coast of Andalusia, on the foothills of the Jura mountains, and in the heart of Paris, they find each other for three summers, in all the desires, wanderings, seriousness and violence of first loves.In the end, perhaps the sun had something to do with it.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	1. The First Summer

**Author's Note:**

> hi again
> 
> this is a translation of my own work from french to english!!
> 
> hope you enjoy, happy reading!!

The first of the three summers announces itself one bright morning in April when Anne and Robin drop the news on Harry: “ _We’re going to Maravilla this summer!”._ He gives them a blank stare but lightens up as Anne mentions that there were lots of beaches and that he was going to get his own room in the apartment they’d rented.

When Charlie, his neighbor and only friend, heard the news that same afternoon, he gave him that devilish smile that Harry knew and hated, and he told him that he’d better be on top of his game that summer because the girls at Maravilla were unlike anything he’d ever seen in his lifetime. Charlie had already spent a few weeks down in the sunny Spanish coast, and he’d seen things he’d never forget. _The girls,_ he said, _they love the French. They won’t get a thing you say, but they’ll be all over you, mark my words._

Harry doesn’t think so. And Harry’s not like Charlie. People even say they’re polar opposites and often wonder how in the hell these two boys became – and remained—friends. Charlie is four years older than Harry, and if there’s anything he lives by, it’s the fact that life is awfully short, and that he might as well just do whatever he wants. Harry would be lying if he said that he didn’t fear for Charlie’s life on a daily basis.

Before Harry leaves, Charlie takes him aside in his own garage, where he was repairing a faulty chain on his bike.

“You know,” Charlie says, propping the bike up against a chair, “I’m getting worried about you.”

Harry leans against a wall after stealing a brief glance behind himself to locate the shelves— he wouldn’t want to knock anything off. The garage is small and horribly crowded. Charlie’s father’s little Renault hasn’t fit in there in years. He looks out the sliding door and sees his parents loading suitcases in the back of a cab, parked on the side of the road. The driver’s waiting inside the car and wipes the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. The asphalt on the road appears to be wobbling under the scorching heat. Gemma doesn’t help with the luggage. She’s leaning against the cab, eyes glued on her phone, typing away.

“Hello?” Charlie calls out.

“What do you mean?” Harry says and gives the tiniest kick to a dirty football on the ground.

“I’m just saying. I’d be more enthusiastic if I were you. You _need_ to get some, mate.”

“I’m fourteen.”

“Well, shit… Aren’t you on your way to the grave then… Where’s your cane, grandpa?”

“Shut up…”

Anne calls out his name, motioning for him to hurry up and join them.

“Coming, _Maman_!” he shouts and turns back to Charlie. He rubs his own arm, shifting from one foot to another. “Well… I’m gonna… I’m gonna get going, I think.”

Charlie gets up, wiping the black, sticky tar off of his hands with a piece of cloth. He opens his arms wide and pulls Harry in for a tight, stifling hug. Charlie smells like lavender – and it’s the last thing he’d expected from him.

“On a more serious note… Have fun. Come back in one piece.”

“I’m not going to war,” Harry mumbles, his face all scrunched up against Charlie’s shoulder.

“I know… I’ll miss you, though.”

“I’ll miss you too. See you in August.”

They pull apart and as Harry starts leaving, he feels something slowing him down. There’s a knot in his stomach, and it’s tightening up.

He steps into the car and fastens his seatbelt, and he feels strangely small, there, on the left side of the bench. He would come to learn it: this wouldn’t be the last time he feels like he’s floating in a universe where everything is too big, too noisy _, too everything._

Harry’s fourteen years old, and like many other boys of his age, he’s still searching for his place in the world. Gemma sits next to him, right by the door with the smoked glass, blocking the eleven o’clock sun. Her feet are propped up on the edge of the seat and she’s writing a paragraph on her phone, earbuds screwed into her ears.

“You okay, _mon ange_?” Anne asks, shifting on her seat. Harry just nods, and in a comforting gesture, she puts her hand on his naked knee. “Did you say goodbye to Charlie?”

“Mh-hm.”

“He’s a good one, Charlie,” his stepfather says. “Good kid, bless him. He’s helped me fix my car once… saved me a nasty trip to the mechanic.”

“Yeah, I like him,” Anne says, removing her straw hat to fix her hair. “He’s very polite… you wouldn’t guess if you saw him on the street.”

Harry is quickly forgotten. His parents talk about Charlie and his father, who’d lost his wife three years ago. The poor man couldn’t have gotten by without Charlie’s support, who apparently helps a lot around the house, and takes care of him without ever complaining.

The car pulls out of the driveway and sets off to the airport as Harry watches the price go up on the tiny meter on the dashboard. He looks out the window, watching Bordeaux’ suburbs unfold before him through the smoked glass.

*

They get to Maravilla in the late afternoon, right at that point when the sun is about to set and the air is still dense, a tangible remaining evidence of that day’s oppressive heat. Their plane had been delayed a few hours. In their rental car, Anne and Gemma are sound asleep. Robin parks the car in front of the building where they’d rented a place for a couple of weeks. In the distance, the sun reflects itself on the sparkling water.

Harry’s skin feels sticky with sweat, and he can’t wait to hop in the shower.

Robin wakes up his wife and they step out of the car. Gemma slowly stirs awake and lets out a small yawn. She’d fallen asleep against Harry’s shoulder.

“Are we there?” she asks, her voice all hoarse.

“I suppose.”

She sits up and pulls out her phone. “Are you getting anything?”

“Let me see.”

Harry grabs his own phone, looking for any nearby Wi-Fi signals.

“There’s… I think there’s one at a café, not far from here… But there’s a password.”

“Shit,” she whispers. “Think there’s Wi-Fi inside?”

“I don’t know.”

“I swear if Robin… Hang on.” She rolls down the window and leans out. “Hey, Robin! There’s Wi-Fi up there, isn’t there?”

He pulls the last suitcase out of the car and places it on the sidewalk, and closes the trunk.

“ _Non, mademoiselle_.”

Gemma falls back on her seat, containing herself. She remains silent but Harry sees her cheeks turning pink. He knows she’s on the verge of spontaneous combustion. She hasn’t dared to raise her voice at Robin ever since that one fight they had that made Anne cry. Still, Harry finds it amusing.

“You know, when we were _your_ age, we got by just fine without Wi-Fi,” Robin adds. “Look at your brother. When do you ever see him on his phone? Kid’s an old soul, look how healthy he looks, he’s glowing.”

Gemma simply raises her eyebrows and mumbles, quietly enough so that only Harry can hear her, “ _Papa_ would’ve never taken us to the ghetto.”

“The ghetto… You’re overreacting.”

Gemma rolls up the window and presses her temple against it. She considers escaping to the nearest café and begging them for their password, but just then, she hears Anne crying out in surprise. Gemma turns around and looks out the windshield, squinting at the sun.

“Maman's recognized somebody, I think. Look.”

Harry complies, eager to see who it could possibly be. They are miles from Bordeaux and yet there is no doubt that Anne knew the couple standing next to the gate. A man is smoking a cigarette, right next to a pretty woman with long hair and pink cheeks. She runs towards Anne and almost jumps into her arms.

“Oh,” Gemma says. “Small world, huh… That’s Jay. Do you remember her?”

“The name sounds familiar, but…”

“Come on, let’s go say hello.”

They unbuckle their seatbelts and step out of the car. The reunion between the two women is quite moving to witness, Harry even thinks he sees tears beading in the corner of his mum’s eyes. Jay’s face turns into an expression of shock as she sees Gemma walking up to her.

“Is that _Gemma_? My goodness, how you’ve grown!”

Jay pulls her into a warm hug and showers her with compliments. She tells her she looks just like Anne in her youth. When Gemma tells her that she’s just turned sixteen, she sighs and says, “How long has it been? Last time I saw you, you had pigtails…”

Harry stands aside when all the presentations are made.

He learns that his mum and this woman, Johannah, were long-time friends. They grew up together in the Jura, where he was born, and remained friends. Jay saw him and Gemma being born, and then the two women had lost sight of each other when Anne’s ex-husband was transferred to Bordeaux after a few years. They’d kept in touch for as long as they could and then, inevitably, they’d drifted apart.

When Harry learns that Jay has _seven children_ , he opens his eyes wide, and that makes everyone laugh.

Anne introduces herself to Jay’s new husband, and Jay does the same with Robin. They realize they’ve both been divorced (Jay, more than once). The conversation resumes when Anne points out that they’re spending their holidays in the same place.

“Isn’t that crazy?”

“Tell me about it… Dan and I’ve been coming here every summer for the past five years… Except for last summer, actually, we took a…”

Harry makes a swift escape. He steals the keys from his stepfather’s hand, pulls his suitcase behind him, and heads toward the apartment. He heads straight to the shower.

When he comes out, the couple next door is sitting in their living room. His parents are there, they’re all chatting, and he wonders just how long his shower’s lasted. He quickly gets dressed in his room and joins them.

“How old are you, Harry?” Jay asks as soon as he takes a seat on one of the couches.

“Fourteen.”

“My Louis’ sixteen, just like your sister. I think you two will get along just fine… Remember him?”

Anne answers for him, “He was too young... He must’ve been… what... three years old? Louis was five.”

“That’s right,” Jay nods. “It’s all coming back to me now. And Louis used to be crazy about him, wasn’t he? You two were glued to each other…”

“They were,” Anne confirms with a little smile. “You couldn’t get them to take a nap if they weren’t in the same bed, can you imagine…”

Gemma starts laughing, staring at her brother and gauging his reaction. He gives her a blank stare.

“Do the kids have a babysitter here?” Anne asks. “I mean… If you and Dan ever want to go out…”

“No,” Jay replies. “They’ve got Louis. Louis’ their mummy when mummy’s not here… But more seriously, he does quite a good job of looking after them. And he’s very responsible, he can do just about anything. He’s also got serious skills in Spanish, which… you know… comes in handy.”

“He must’ve grown up a lot.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, he has. And he’s handsome, my boy… Want to see a photo?”

Jay pulls out her phone and scrolls through her camera roll, picks one, and shows it to Anne, who breaks into a tender smile. “My God, how gorgeous. And he looks so much like you.”

“He does, doesn’t he? Although he does have his father’s eyes. Only thing he ever got from him.”

Harry’s too far away to see the picture, so instead, he settles for watching a bit of TV, even though the whole thing is in Spanish. He dozes off a little and wishes he could just go to bed. Around him, people are talking, laughing, eating, and getting to know each other. Harry only ever speaks when someone asks him a question, and he prefers to just take in his surroundings in silence. He looks at Jay, he thinks she’s beautiful, and he tries to imagine what her son must look like. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t for the life of him remember a little boy with whom he’d supposedly shared the first years of his life in the Jura. Given the amount of praise that was spoken about Louis that evening, Harry expects to see nothing less than one of Christ’s disciples.

When they all decide it’s getting late, everyone says their goodbyes. Jay suggests that they all meet up the next day and go to the beach together. She pulls Harry aside before leaving and tells him that Louis would be, without a doubt, ecstatic to see him again. Harry smiles innocently.

*

In Maravilla, the sun has no mercy. Harry finds that out pretty quickly.

The cobblestones of the road are burning to the touch. A few unfortunate stray dogs wander around the neighborhood in search of a little shade, hiding underneath cars or grazing the walls, shaded by the edges of the tiled roofs.

At the breakfast table, Harry is sipping a fresh glass of mango juice on the terrace, squinting in the brightness. In a subtle gesture, Gemma transfers the remaining crusts of her French toast over to Harry’s plate. Then, she leans in to whisper to him, “Have you seen the waiter?”

“Mh.”

“Mh. What does “mh” mean? He’s gorgeous, isn’t he? And he’s young! He’s, like…Twenty, at most.”

“I don’t know.”

“Harry. You do know that acknowledging another man’s beauty doesn’t mean you’re gay, right?”

Harry starts to feel dizzy all of a sudden. He hopes his parents didn’t hear anything. He looks over to them, they’re talking to each other.

“It’s not that.”

“Well, then, don’t you agree? Should I shoot my shot?”

“Yes. I suppose. He’s okay.” he answers dismissively, stabbing his fork into his plate while trying to catch the last of the little grapes.

“Use your fingers, dummy…” Gemma starts picking grapes from his plate and eats them herself. “ _Oh mon dieu_ , here he comes again. How do I look?”

“You look fine,” Harry answers, a little annoyed.

The young waiter comes back to their table, wearing a night blue apron, equipped with a heavy jug of water. He fills up Gemma’s almost empty glass as she beams at him.

“Thank you! _Muchas gracias_!”

*

In the parking lot near the beach, as soon as the rental car grinds to a halt, Harry hurriedly steps out and shuts the door behind him. He felt like he was suffocating inside. His bare feet tread the hot asphalt and he suddenly feels exposed. He’s only got his trunks on and he’s overly conscious of his pale, lanky body. He’s quite tall, and a little too thin, like a child in a young man’s body. He crosses his arms on his chest and for some reason that makes him feel more secure. Three other doors slam shut behind him and Robin pulls out the towels, chairs, and bags. With a short glimpse at his sister, he notes how pale she is, too. The difference is that it doesn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. She puts on her sunglasses and picks up one of the bags, securing the strap over her shoulder.

A heavy car slows down near their spot, blocking their way as it lines up in the last remaining parking space. By the delighted look on his mother’s face, Harry can already guess who it might be.

The pretty woman they’d seen the previous day steps out first, wearing a long summer dress and the same large straw hat as Anne’s. Her hair is long and wavy, flowing with the wind. She looks young, and that’s what hits him right away. As she hugs Anne and as the rest of the family quickly gets out of the car, Harry starts counting the kids. There’s six of them… not seven.

“This,” says Jays, “is Charlotte, my eldest daughter.”

She puts both hands on the tanned shoulders of a short blonde girl with eyes as bright and blue as hers.

“Next is Félicité, then there’s the first set of twins,” she gestures for them to get closer. “Daisy and Phoebe, their dad was quite fond of English names. I’ve told them to dress differently so you could tell them apart. Daisy’s wearing blue. And, last but not least…” She lifts a little redhead toddler off of the ground and holds her into her arms. The little girl hides her face in the crook of her mother’s neck. “This is Doris. And her twin brother, Ernest. They’ve just woken up; give them a bit of time and they’ll be running around!”

Anne remains speechless for a short while, taking in the sight of this lovely, not so little family. The greetings last way too long for Harry’s liking. Kissing each other on the cheeks, or, _faire la bise_ , as they said, was a custom, but he never knew whether he should give two, three, or four of them.

“I think the girls will get along fine,” said Jay, with a bright, hopeful smile. “Charlotte and Gemma must be around the same age.”

“A year’s difference,” explains Charlotte with a polite smile.

Before they set off on foot, Anne has a look around. “Where’s Louis?”

“Oh, I forgot to bring water bottles. He’s offered to go buy some at the supermarket. He’ll join us in a bit.”

“I can’t wait to see him,” says Anne, readjusting the strap of her large tote bag over her shoulder. “God, how long it’s been.”

*

Harry is shuffling far behind the little group. His feet keep sinking into the smooth, hot sand, and he finds it hard to walk without tripping. Far ahead, his and Jay’s family are looking for the perfect place to settle. Gemma’s also a little behind, striding alongside Charlotte and Félicité, the three girls chatting away. Once in a while, Félicité peeks behind her own shoulder, stealing a short glance at him. When Harry notices, he waves at her shyly.

It’s a peaceful day at sea, the waves roll slowly, crash and run aground over the wet sand at their own pace.

The men stick three large umbrellas in the sand, and the little group spreads out to sit on deckchairs and towels. Gemma is showing Charlotte something on her phone, and Félicité is helping the little twins put on sunscreen.

Harry’s just sat down on a large towel when Jay exclaims, “Ah, there he is!”

She stands up, her long skirt flowing with the wind. “Lou! Over here!’ she screams and waves dramatically at him.

Harry turns around, squinting a little. Somewhere in the distance, near the parking lot, he makes out a silhouette. When he gets close enough, he can spot the crate of water bottles that he is carrying. He walks up to Jay and sets them down in the shade.

“ _Merci,_ _mon Lou_ ,” she says, and kisses his temple. “You got the cold ones, didn’t you?” She doesn’t let him answer, and immediately introduces him to Anne and Robin. “Well, there he is.”

He greets them warmly, smile and all.

And Harry suddenly remembers that he needs to breathe.

Louis is handsome, Jay didn't lie. He’s got an undeniable charm, which strikes from the first second, delicate and captivating at the same time. His skin is golden, kissed by the sun, and his broad shoulders are peeling a little. His body is firm, slender, and tan, he can tell he likes to work out once in a while. His hair is carelessly brushed to the side, and his eyes seem to be a slightly lighter blue than those of his siblings. It’s a shade of blue that stands out against his tanned skin, a shade of blue that sort of makes him thirsty, and that almost hurts to see. It pierces right through Harry, who stares at him shamelessly. His fingers sink into the soft sand; he doesn’t think anyone’s ever struck him so.

After he’s said hi to Gemma, Louis finally looks at him.

“It's Harry,” says Jay, enthusiastically. “Remember him?”

Louis remains silent for a while. He’s stopped smiling, and everyone is watching them as if waiting for a miracle to happen.

“Well?” Jay insists, grabbing a fresh bottle of water.

“Yeah. I remember him.”

He thinks his voice is just as dazzling as he is. It’s an unusual, crystalline pitch, which is sort of uncommon among the boys of his age.

Anne puts an encouraging hand on his shoulder and whispers, “Well get up, then. _Dis bonjour_.”

Louis holds out his hand for Harry to grab and he helps him up to his feet. They’re about the same size, but for some reason, Louis is extremely intimidating. The way he looks at him makes him want to take a step back. They kiss each other on the cheeks, silently agreeing that two is enough. Harry then lets himself fall back softly on the beach towel, and Louis skips over to the other side. He makes sure everyone has put sunscreen on and that the little ones have enough water. Then he readjusts one of the umbrellas and sets off to the sea.

Jay frowns a little as she applies sunscreen on her arms. “Not going to lie, I expected a little more enthusiasm from him.”

“He’ll come around,” Anne reassures her. “Let’s give them some time, it’s been a while… Harry, sweetheart, why don’t you go for a swim?”

“Maybe later.”

He lies down on his stomach, resting his eyes as Gemma puts on a playlist of that summer’s best hits.

After about an hour, Anne gently wakes him up. He looks around, still a little groggy.

“Harry, _chéri,_ your back is all burnt…”

“What…”

“Why didn’t you let me help you with the sunscreen, I thought you’d…”

“ _Maman_ … I’m fine.”

He struggles to sit back up; his back itches an awful lot but he won’t admit it. He knows he’s going to have the worst night of his life. He rubs the sleep off of his eyes and quickly puts on his step-father’s sunglasses. He stares off in the distance; the waves have increased in height, and he spots a couple of surfers near the coast. On the deck chair next to him, Anne is fanning herself with a magazine. She smiles at him, offering him a bottle of water which he eagerly accepts and downs its content in one go.

“Thirsty, huh?” Jay notices with a smile. He just nods, and she suggests, “You should go hang out with Louis… He can’t be that far… Oh, there he is. See him? Red shorts, by the volleyball net.”

And just because Jay asked, Harry can’t see himself refusing. So, he gets up, dusts the sand off of his legs and arms, and steps around the children. He makes his way toward the net, shuffling his feet, head down, repeating to himself that everything would be fine. _Be cool. Just be cool, don’t act weird, don't make him uncomfortable, and everything will be fine._

When he gets close enough, he realizes that Louis isn’t alone. He’s hanging around three other boys his age, one of them is smoking a cigarette. He feels stupid all of a sudden. Louis’ been here longer than they have. Surely, he must’ve already made some friends. And according to Jay, he did speak Spanish quite well. Why does that surprise him?

One of the boys notices that Harry is observing them and whispers something to Louis, who barely turns around. He mumbles something back, and then they all walk away from him. Harry watches them disappear along the coast. If he’s honest, he’s actually quite relieved that they’re leaving. He tries to ignore the little pinch in his heart as he starts heading toward the ocean. He takes a few more steps after the water reaches his stomach; soft, warm ripples lap at his skin, silky sand tickling his toes. He can hear the cries of the waves and the birds, and also the lifeguard whistling for him to get back to the shore. He half-heartedly complies, but deep down he hopes that one day he’ll be brave enough to come here at night, to sink into the black vastness and to take a deep breath.

*

The two families get together for lunch in a small bistro near the beach. They stick three tables together and ask for highchairs for the little ones. Harry and Louis end up sitting face to face.

They’re indoors for once, sheltered from the heat and the light. Harry’s cheeks have taken a slight red tinge, his skin feels dry and taut, irritated by the sun. His hair is still wet, and the long, dripping strands fall back over his eyes. He’s got his chin pressed into the hollow of his palm, staring into the void. Anne shakes a cardboard menu in front of his face, and when he’s finally pulled out of his mindless contemplation, he grabs it. Before he reads it, he feels he’s brave enough to steal a glance at Louis.

A pair of blue eyes meet his own. But even when he’s been caught in the act, Louis doesn’t look away.

Suddenly, Harry’s not so sleepy anymore. There’s a spark inside of his chest, and when it becomes a little too much, he looks down, anxiously scanning the menu. He picks a plain cheese pizza, a safe choice in a foreign country, and downs an entire glass of ice water. Around him, the table is very lively. Everybody seems to get along well, and the twins are just bursting with energy. Only he and Louis remain silent. Their eyes meet once in a while, by accident, or not. They eat in silence, drink in silence, and keep busy in silence. Harry’s grateful for all the mindless little games he’s downloaded on his phone. Next to them, Gemma and Lottie seem to have loosened up quickly. They chat and giggle and sometimes burst out laughing, even though they’d officially met less than a few hours ago.

On the adults’ side – there always is an adult side – Jay is leading the conversation. She’s always laughing, always has some interesting stories to tell, and she makes sure everybody has got what they need. Between two anecdotes, she steals a furtive glance at the boys, only to find out that they’re doing everything to avoid each other’s gaze. She’s smiling, she always is, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. But there’s no denying that the situation saddens her. Harry notices after a while. He feels it too, this uneasiness, this tension, this untold pressure coming from everyone around them.

Yet, he doesn’t do anything of it. After their meal, Harry says goodbye to them and deliberately avoids Louis.

*

What almost resembles a routine settles itself after a while. Both families spend their days together by the ocean. They would meet there in the morning, have breakfast in a small neighborhood café, and usually spend a few hours lazing on the beach, never a stone’s throw away from each other, like one big family. The girls grow closer, and the adults too – old friendships are rekindled, and everybody seems to be having a great time. All but two.

It is one of those days where the morning breeze hangs in wet curtains along the coast, under a sky so blue you’d almost forget what clouds look like. Harry’s parents had woken up late and decided to send him and his sister off to the beach, claiming that they were too tired to go anywhere. Naturally, Gemma doesn’t mind. She’s got Charlotte – the girls are practically best friends, now. As soon as they’re reunited, they set off to the sea, jumping and splashing around in the waves. Harry settles for something quieter. He lays his towel on the sand before sitting down, wincing as he feels the itch on his back. His sunburn had started to fade away, leaving behind the unsightly traces of peeling skin. Jay doesn’t fail to notice. She looks around and spots her son watching the little twins in their small inflatable pool.

“Lou, would you come here a minute?”

The boys exchange a quick look, and then Louis gets up obediently. He walks up to them, seemingly confident, but his jaw is tense.

“Help him put sunscreen on his back. Look, his skin’s all burnt, I know for a fact it’ll only get worse.”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” he retorts dryly.

“See, it wasn’t a question, Louis,” says Jay, resolutely. “I’m not asking you to euthanize the boy. Just give him a hand. Take this.”

She hands him a bottle of sunscreen: her grasp and gesture are firm, a silent way of letting him know that she would not take no for an answer. Louis almost snatches it from her hand, and he goes to kneel behind Harry, who’s holding his breath in anticipation.

“You don’t have to do this,” Harry whispers, low enough so Jay won’t hear.

“She’s making me. Don’t make this difficult.”

He can feel Louis’ palms and fingers, coated with the creamy substance, as they massage his skin and spread the product around. But his movements are almost mechanical. Clinical. He knows they’re being watched. And so, as soon as he feels like he’s put enough cream on his back, Louis bounces to his feet, wiping his hands off on his swimming trunks before leaving, heading towards the girls.

“Sorry about him, Harry. Want some water?”

He gives a simple nod and forces a smile, as a way to let her know that this was no big deal. And deep down, it’s starting to feel like it, too. It doesn’t bother him as much as it did on that first day. He’s even gotten used to it in a way. Besides, he gets along pretty well with everybody. The girls like him, and the little twins find him hilarious, especially when he starts sun-sneezing. He doesn’t do it on purpose, of course, he doesn’t even try, as a matter of fact, but he’s glad that it works.

Sometimes he’ll go swimming alone. He’ll dive under the waves and swim all the way to the floating marker buoys and back, and it’s not so bad. Whenever he runs into Louis and friends (three young boys with tan skin and their hair all damaged by the seawater), he pretends to ignore them. But deep down he is painfully aware that, at all times, somewhere near him, is the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen, and he knows that he despises him for no apparent reason. Although he hates to admit it, it had started eating away at him from the inside. From the very minute they’d met on that first day of vacation, Harry had felt this strong and frankly _humiliating_ desire to be liked by Louis – or at least to be appreciated.

More than once, he catches himself just sitting on the sand with his thighs drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, a sweaty cheek pressed against one of his knees, just watching Louis playing volleyball by the big net. There’s something about him that’s so mesmerizing he can’t take his eyes off of him. He likes to watch his body in motion when he’s playing, the muscles of his back following his abrupt movements, his tendons jutting out when he positions himself to catch the ball, the delicate curve of his calves, his grey boxer shorts peeking out over his swimming trunks, his gorgeous feet where the sand likes to stick, his messy hair when it’s drying up, sticking up everywhere, all wild and unruly.

Whenever Louis comes to lie down on his towel after swimming, dripping with water and a little out of breath, Harry watches him too. He’s careful not to be obvious about it. He knows full well there’s nothing normal about his behavior, but when he sees his skin glistening under the sun, and the fine, blonde hairs on his body, and the curve of his back and that of his arse underneath the red shorts – it’s priceless. Louis always seems to lie down on his stomach, with a little towel covering the back of his head. It’s as though he’s inviting Harry to watch him from every angle.

_Look at me. I won’t see you; I promise._

His own thoughts start to scare him when he tries to imagine himself running his tongue along his chest, from the elastic band of his shorts to the hollow of his neck, in hopes of tasting the salt and the water and the sweat.

*

The boys don’t warm up to each other until one night, at another dinner both their families are having on a restaurant’s terrace, just before nightfall. A cheerful Spanish song livens up the evening. The tiny houses speckled across the coast are starting to light up as the sun goes down, and the place slowly but surely begins to turn into a postcard-worthy view.

“The girls sure look happy,” Jay notices, carrying a glass of wine to her lips, as she always seems to be doing.

“I’ll take a guess and blame the restaurant’s free wi-fi,” says Dan, stretching an arm behind his wife’s back, resting it on the back of her chair.

Gemma, Charlotte, and Félicité don’t seem to pay them any mind, too busy typing and scrolling on their phones, with stupid smiles plastered on their faces.

“Well, it’s not like there’s no wi-fi back at the flat?”

“Wait, is that true?” Gemma exclaims just a little too loud, abandoning her phone.

“Of course,” says Jay. “You’re welcome over, you and your brother.”

Gemma looks over at her mother, seeking her permission. Anne just shrugs. A loud, sudden, thumping noise makes all heads turn towards the end of the big table. Louis’ just slammed his glass on the wooden surface.

“Are you okay?” Jay asks, tilting her head back to get a better look at him.

“Yes. I’m sorry, It was an accident,” he apologizes, though it sounded anything but genuine.

“You look tense, mon chéri. Want some port?”

“Port?” Anne repeats, astounded. “What, like the wine?”

“Well, yeah… He’s sixteen. A little drink once in a while won’t hurt him. Hand me your glass, Louis.”

And who is he to refuse? He hands it over; Jay fills it up halfway with the large bottle they had ordered for the entire table. He gently stirs the liquid inside his glass, brings it up to his nose to have a whiff. The adults chuckle at the sight, and then he practically downs it in one go.

“There was _no_ need for that,” says his mother.

“It was delicious. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome…”

“Could I have some, too?” Harry asks shyly.

“Nope,” Anne says, categorically, and takes the bottle preventively. “Not happening.”

“Can’t I just have a taste?” he insists. “You could dilute it.”

“Sacrilège,” Jay exclaims. “Diluting port? Who does that?”

“No, Harry.”

He sulks, his head bowed down, almost pouting. “You never let me do anything.”

“God, the mouth on this one,” Anne sighs and sets the wine bottle on the table, out of his reach. “I said _no_. Don’t be a crybaby about it. You’ll get to drink when you’re old enough.”

He clenches his jaw, still looking down at his feet as he feels the heat surging through his body, warming his cheeks. He hates the way she speaks to him. Like he’s just a little kid. And he’s not – he hates being treated like this.

Meanwhile, the conversation resumes and wavers dangerously towards the subject of school. They talk about the kids and the boys’ projects. Anne explains that Harry’s just passed his brevet, with one of the highest marks in his grade.

“Are they all in the same school?” asks Anne, picking up one of the last tapas from a large plate in the middle of the table. “The three oldest, I mean.”

“No, um…” Jay hesitates. “Well, Louis’ at a different school.” She looks over at Louis, who reacts by arching an eyebrow. She seems to get the message, and slides her finger over her lips, as a promise to keep her mouth shut. “He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Louis keeps his head low and waits. He waits until the attention’s shifted elsewhere, and then, inconspicuously, he steals the bottle of port wine. He sets it down on the ground, by his chair, and nudges Harry’s foot with his own. Harry reacts immediately. He looks up and meets his eyes – and for the first time ever, it seems, they’re not as intimidating as usual. They’re just like a cat’s, he says to himself. They sparkle funny, too; a flicker of mischief behind the usually icy blue of them. Louis gives a subtle nod, pointing to the bottle on the ground. Harry clocks it, puts his own glass down on the floor, and proceeds to fill it up, bent over so as not to be seen. He drinks fast, hidden underneath the table, and comes up just as quickly, grabbing hold of his utensils and cutting a piece of grilled salmon as if nothing had just happened. After a few minutes, Louis does the same. He bends down, pours himself a glass, gulps it down, and goes back up. They keep this little thing going for a while without anyone noticing, and stop just short of emptying the bottle. In between drinks, they exchange complicit looks, like it’s some sort of game they’re playing. It’s ridiculous really, bonding over wine, but for the first time in a while, Harry’s actually having a good time. He feels good. It no longer feels as though he’s walking on eggshells in his presence, and he naively lets himself believe that this might just be the beginning of their friendship. What else could he have made out of this situation? Louis was downright _playing_ with him.

But he’s brought back to Earth eventually, and sooner than later.

When he feels like his bladder’s about to burst, he heads to the bathroom. He walks slowly, staggering a bit, his vision a little blurry.

As he’s washing his hands, Louis enters in turn. They look at each other through the mirror. Louis’ cheeks are tinted pink, and so is his nose. He heads straight to the urinals without saying a word.

Harry finishes washing his hands but he’s not quite ready to leave just yet. He lingers around, wasting time. He thinks this might be their chance to have a proper conversation. Maybe. And so, he just stands there, drying his hands with paper towels, and he can’t help but listen to him pee. He even hears him sighing with satisfaction. To take his mind off of it, he tries – and fails – to decipher the little sign on the door, the one that says, _Los empleados deben lavarse las manos_.

After he’s done, Louis takes his time washing his hands, and finally _– finally_ , walks up to him. Harry’s heart is racing, and he’s convinced Louis can hear it pounding against his rib cage. He stops breathing altogether when their eyes lock.

Louis’ beautiful. This isn’t the first time this thought crosses his mind. But he is. And he’s standing very close to him. And he’s been drinking, so who knows what he might do.

“Just so you know,” Louis says, in a low voice. “Back there, I noticed you had something between your teeth.” He points out at his own front teeth. “Right there. You should do something about it.”

*

Jay didn’t lie. They did have an unlimited and surprisingly good Wi-Fi signal in their flat. Harry and Gemma spend the next evening over there. Gemma, of her own free will of course; Harry’ just being dragged along with her. Anne and Robin have planned a night out in the town without them, and Jay’s kindly offered to keep the kids for the evening.

Gemma and Lottie have locked themselves in a room, laughing and talking loudly, and their music echoes around the long, narrow hallway. Harry, on the other hand, keeps to himself. If he’s honest, he still hasn’t gotten over what went down the day before. Now he can’t even look Louis in the eye. So, he stays in the living room with the little twins and pretends to be interested in the cartoons they’re watching on TV. Ernest tells him, very seriously, that he’s seen the episode _thousands of times_. He and Doris know it by heart. They fight over who gets to tell Harry exactly what’s going to happen in the next scene, and each time Harry reacts excessively to make them laugh.

Jay joins them an hour later, just when he’s starting to get hungry.

“How’s it going?” She asks, smiling, and sits next to him on the couch.

“I’m fine.”

Doris runs up to her and climbs on her lap, her little arms circling her waist.

“You hungry?” she asks Harry.

“A bit, yeah.”

“How does McDonald’s sound?”

“Yeah, that’s... That’s fine.”

“It’s up to you. If you’re not feeling it, I can whip up something quick for you… Though I should warn you, there’s not much left in the fridge.”

“McDonald’s okay,” he assures her.

“Good. Louis’ taking the girls out to eat. He’ll be driving. You want to tag along or should I just give him your order?”

“I’d like to go with them. If that’s okay.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s fine. I get it,” she chuckles. “The twins are a handful.”

“No! They’re nice. I just…”

“It’s okay, sweetie. Let me just go and tell him.”

Harry feels like he shouldn’t have made that decision. But he knows it’s too late to go back. The last thing he wants is to disappoint Jay. It’s obvious she goes to a lot of trouble to get Louis and him to connect. At least he’s trying – if it doesn’t work out, he knows there’ll only be one person to blame.

In the car, he sits on the passenger side. Gemma, Charlotte, and Félicité sit in the back together, all giddy and excited to go out without their parents. Charlotte makes a point of tightening her seatbelt, quietly instructing the two other girls to do the same because, according to her at least, Louis’ as reckless of a driver as they come.

“Oh, shut up, Charlotte,” he mutters, jamming the key in the ignition. “If you can drive better than me then by all means, come take a seat.”

“Chill out.”

Louis ignores her and checks to make sure everyone’s got their seatbelts on. He steals a quick glance at Harry. “Buckle up.”

“I was going to,” he mumbles, fastening himself.

The car shudders to a start and they exit the parking way.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see just how tightly Louis’ holding the steering wheel. On the road, he settles for watching the streets as they rush by through the half-open window; the wind blows through his messy hair, buzzing in his ear and making him squint.

Louis accelerates once they’re on the main road. Charlotte’s phone connects to the car’s speakers, blasting Drake’s latest hit of that summer. The girls sing along and out loud, and Charlotte leans in to give her own obnoxious rendition of the song in her brother’s ear:

_“Kiki, do you love me, are you ridin’, say you’ll never ever leave from beside me! ‘Cause I want ya, and I need ya, and I’m down for you always!”_

Louis bares with her for a few more seconds, and then he shuts the radio suddenly.

“Oh come on,” Félicité whines, settling back into her seat. “Why are you being like this? What’s the matter with you?”

“Right?” Charlotte agrees and turns to him. “Even mum’s wondering what’s gotten into you. What’s wrong?”

He gives her no answer, his fingers nervously drumming against the steering wheel. He slows down and turns right through McDonald’s parking lot. Harry works up the courage to look at him, eyeing him down expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

Charlotte pipes up again, this time quieter like it’s some sort of secret – which is pointless because of course everybody hears her. “Is it because of Harry?... Honestly, if that’s what it is, you’re a right wanker because he’s done absolutely nothing to you.”

“It’s none of your business, alright?”

“Actually, it is,” Gemma chimes in, in sudden interest, with an off-putting smile. “That’s my brother we’re talking about. What’s your deal with him?”

“I’ve got _nothing_ against your brother, will you lot just drop it? If I put the bloody music back on, will you leave me alone?”

Charlotte just crosses her arms against her chest and gives him a look through the rearview mirror; one that means she’s definitely not done with him. He pulls into the drive-thru and pulls the window down.

“What do you girls want?”

Seeing as there was no point in insisting right then, the girls list their orders one by one, which he repeats to the speaker in near-perfect Spanish. He adds two menus for the twins who didn’t join them.

“What about you,” he mutters in Harry’s direction, not even sparing a glance for him.

“Same as Gem?” he says, unsure.

Louis repeats Gemma’s order and pays with his stepdad’s credit card. They wait for a while, and then Charlotte breaks the silence once again. “You know, Harry, if he’s a pain in your arse you’re welcome to stay with us. _We_ have loads of fun.”

He smiles at her through the rearview mirror. “That’s nice. Thanks.”

“It’ll always be better than babysitting the kids for free.”

*

Her suggestion gives a completely new twist to his holiday. Now instead of spending his time venturing alone into the ocean or keeping to himself at lunch without daring to look up from his plate, or just plainly wasting his time napping at the beach, he hangs around the girls – sticking by Gemma more than anything else. And just like she said, they know how to have a good time.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as clumsy and graceless as Charlotte Tomlinson. She’s a sight to behold – in a very endearing way. He finds himself laughing out loud at her stupid jokes, and it seems like she’s not yet mastered how to keep her balance when a wave comes crashing down on her. He’s lost count of how many times she’s fallen over in the water or tripped while walking along the shore.

He’s also grown quite fond of Félicité – her quieter, naturally laid-back younger sister. Together, they set out to collect all the seashells they can find and gather them to make a big collection.

This sudden change of scenario makes for a very satisfying turn of events for Jay, who likes to watch them all the way from her chaise longue. “It’s better than nothing,” she says to Anne, who simply nods in agreement, noticeably relieved that her son was starting to come out of his shell.

Harry spends a lot of time at the Tomlinson’s place. He doesn’t dread it as much, because he knows his sister’s here by his side, and the girls are fun to be around.

But as he will learn over time; when things seem to be going well for him, it usually never lasts long.

The day Harry ruins everything is likely the hottest day of the summer so far. When the sun reaches its zenith and the heat of its glare becomes too much to bear, they all go home and lock themselves in, closing the blinds and blasting the fans. He himself is on the verge of a heat stroke when he finally takes refuge inside their own rental place. He follows his sister’s footsteps, dragging his feet along the floor until he reaches the living room, where the ceiling fan is stirring the disappointingly hot air around the room. He dives into the sofa, throwing an arm over his head, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow and letting the other one dangling down. The TV’s on, broadcasting the local news. The anchorman spits out the headlines in Spanish at an ungodly speed.

When Gemma steps out of the bathroom with fresh clothes on after her quick shower, she comes and finds him. “Right, get up, you. We’re going to Lottie’s. They have air conditioning.”

“They do?” he mumbles, still a bit dizzy.

“Yeah. Get up, quick.”

“Mm,” he grumbles. “Just give me a minute. Let me take a shower, wait for me.”

His shower consists of a long stream of ice-cold water. He gets dressed, his hair still dripping, and follows Gemma to their new friend’s place. It’s unlocked, so Gemma just knocks twice and lets herself in. They’re immediately hit with a breath of cold, crisp air. The AC’s on, blasting and purring away. Soon, the smell of fried chicken reaches them.

Harry toes off his shoes, not even bothering to place them neatly by the door, where a dozen pairs of sandals are just strewn about the entrance.

Jay’s in the kitchen when they come. She heard them stepping in. She peers over her shoulder and smiles at them, her hands busy mixing some salad in a gigantic ceramic bowl. “Hi, you two,” she whispers. “Everyone’s having a nap. You’re welcome to stay in the living room until the girls wake up. If you want.”

Gemma frowns, and whispers, “Oh, we could always come back later if…”

“No, no, no,” she dismisses her words. “It’s fine. Enjoy the cold. You can even put the TV on if you’d like. Just… keep the volume down, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course. Thank you.”

Gemma goes to sit on the sofa, removing some of the twins’ toys that were lying around. Harry joins her pretty soon and lies down on the opposite side. He closes his eyes and listens to the incessant hum of the air conditioner. It’s not often that the Tomlinson’s place is this quiet. There’s a rare, precious sort of silence in the apartment, and it’s only broken at times by the occasional cupboard that Jay opens and closes in the kitchen, the ticking of a tiny antique clock placed above the TV cabinet, and his sister’s nail’s gently tapping against her phone screen as she types.

After almost half an hour, Harry gets up to go to the bathroom. He quietly makes his way down the hall and stops dead just as he’s about to push the bathroom door. It’s almost halfway opened, and from his position, he can practically see everything. There’s no fog on the glass doors of the shower. Harry freezes. Louis’ completely naked in plain sight. He’s rinsing the shampoo off his hair and pushing it back so it doesn’t fall into his eyes.

Harry’s rational, reasonable part of him tells him to leave and to give him his privacy. He himself wouldn’t fancy being watched in the shower, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t so deeply intrigued by what he’s currently witnessing. His gaze wanders along his body, taking him in like he’s never seen a naked boy before. His eyes linger on what’s always hidden beneath his shorts. His skin, of course, is much whiter down there. There’s a clear demarcation where the hem of his swimming shorts usually rests; his thighs and the rest of his legs are a beautiful golden color. He dares to lay eyes on his arse, and between his legs. His tongue and fingertips burn at the mere prospect of touching him. It’s only when he feels his own shorts become too tight for him that he understands he’s become nothing short of a deviant.

When he shuts the water off, Harry scampers away. As he hurries along the hallway, he catches his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks are bright red, eyes wide open.

He runs back to his sister’s side and sits down, hiding the evidence by covering his lap with a couch cushion. Gemma’s too busy scrolling down her feed to pay any attention to him.

Louis steps out the bathroom, a large white towel wrapped around his waist, and retreats into his room, shutting the door promptly behind him. When he’s sure he won’t come out again, Harry gets up and sneaks into the still steaming bathroom. He closes the door and leans against it, oddly out of breath.

He forgets why he’s even here when he spots Louis’ red swimming shorts, bunched up on a towel rack. The ones he wears when he goes for a swim or when he plays volleyball. The ones he spends most of the day in.

He hates himself with a passion. But he’s here now. And he’s not going to pass up on this.

He takes a few steps towards the rack and grabs the red shorts. His fingers are shaking, his heart is downright pounding inside his chest and he’s convinced he might just pass out from how overwhelming and colossal this is. Without giving it much thought, simply yielding to his most profoundly buried desires, he brings it up to his face, burying his nose in it before taking a deep breath. He didn’t know what to expect, but on second thought, he guesses it’s pretty normal he can’t smell anything at all.

His other hand finds its way down to his own shorts and undoes the single button before unzipping it and slipping inside his underwear. His fingers skillfully wrap around his cock, gently stroking himself in pure bliss, his mind filled with what he’s seen just a few minutes earlier. His back rests against the cold slabs of the wall as he breathes in, and out, in, and…

And then, of course. Of fucking course. The door opens.

He drops the shorts and wishes for instant death. Louis’ standing shirtless right at the door, in what can only be described as pure shock. His eyes are wide open, mouth just slightly gaping. They blush violently, and then Harry seems to remember that his hand is still buried in his underwear. He pulls it out at once.

Louis’ eyes are piercing right through him. And God, he wishes he could move, run away, anything, but it’s like he’s stuck to the wall. Louis stares him down, eyes lingering on the visible bulge in Harry’s shorts, before going back up to meet his petrified gaze.

Louis doesn’t say a word. And somehow, it’s even worse than if he spoke.

When the initial shock seems to wear off, he just walks up to him, slowly, stretches his arm out to reach for his deodorant up on a shelf, and then he leaves, carefully closing the door behind him.

That very night, when he’s finally alone in bed, Harry allows himself to let out everything he’s been holding in for the past two weeks. He likes to think that he’s a silent enough crier. He’s not. When Anne comes knocking at his door, later that night, his own failure smacks him in the face. She looks tired, but she sits down on his bed nevertheless, stroking his hair, worried as only a mother can be.

“He hates me,” he mumbles.

“Who?”

“Maman…”

“You mean Louis?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice caught in his throat – there’s no point in lying to her.

“I’m sure he doesn’t. I think he’s just a bit shy. He’s not warmed up to you yet, or maybe he’s just not the kind to approach people first. Whatever it is, he doesn’t hate you.”

“Stop it,” he whispers in disbelief. “I know he hates me. He’s anything but shy.”

She sighs, wiping the sleep off of her tired eyes. “Yeah, I’m… Listen. Jay and I think it’s a little odd, as well. How about we all have a talk with him tomorrow? How does that sound?”

Harry straightens up suddenly and stops crying at once. “Fucking terrible, is how it sounds.”

“Language,” she retorts, outraged.

“No,” he says, firmly. “Look. I’m sorry. But no. That’s, like, the worst idea ever. If he doesn’t hate me now, he’ll hate my guts for sure if you decide to ‘have a talk’.”

She sighs again, out of ideas. “Listen. I don’t know what else to tell you. Some people are just… The way they are. There’s not much else to say. You’ve got your sister with you, and Lottie and Félicité, they’re so nice to you. So just… ignore him. Yeah? Don’t bother with him. If he doesn’t want to act right, we’re not going to force him to.”

How he wishes he could tell her the truth. In his head is a list of counterpoints he just wants to throw at her to destroy every single one of her arguments. Louis hates him. And he’s starting to believe he has every reason to. But right now, he can’t possibly lay it out flat for his mum, and he can’t picture himself recounting what’s happened earlier today. He sniffles, and she hands him a pack of tissues she usually kept in her pocket.

“Doesn’t matter anyway. They’re all leaving in two weeks. You’ll forget about this. Now go on, get some sleep. It’s late.”

*

During the week, the girls get to know some local boys. They’re a little older and they hardly dabble in French, but that’s beside the point because as it turns out, all of them own Vespas. They like to make the engines roar when they zoom past the girls. In no time at all, Charlotte and Gemma have basically fallen under their spell. _It’s the accent,_ they said, when Louis asked them what they could possibly see in them. Now the girls spend most of their time with these boys, both in the city and at the beach. As soon as one of them so much as makes an attempt at a joke, Charlotte bursts out laughing. They like her – everyone does. But they also like Gemma, who doesn’t talk much but who’s frankly not afraid to get her feet wet. They like how daring she can be.

With the new show in town, the girls end up neglecting Félicité. She’s left behind an awful lot these days and Harry feels bad so he wills himself to properly befriend her. And to his surprise, they click really easily. Sometimes they’ll stay up until late if one of them is sleeping over and they’ll talk until their voices run dry. He feels like he can talk to her about anything. She’s sweet, and understanding. He feels good when he’s with her. It’s never awkward, and he doesn’t even feel that the occasional silence that stands between them needs to be filled with mindless chatter.

One day, Jay suggests dropping them off by car at the town’s only cinema and then have them picked up at around four. So they go. Félicité never makes a move, though. He knows she’s a little more bashful and reluctant than her older sister. He knows that because that’s how he is as well.

When they leave, it’s still too early for Jay to come and pick them up, so they take a stroll down the main street, which is quite popular with the tourists. They sit down on the terrace of a small café, and Harry feels grown-up for the first time. He’s never done this kind of thing before. They’re sitting face to face, and he’s looking at her. She’s pretty and looks a lot like her mother. He can’t help but search for any of Louis’ features on his sister’s face, but he can’t seem to find any. He’s not sure whether he’s disappointed or, on the contrary, relieved.

“You know,” she says. “My mum’s glad we’re spending so much time together.”

“Is she?”

“Well, yeah. I don’t know. I think she really wished you’d gotten along with Louis. I guess this makes up for it.”

He keeps his eyes down, facing the menu they’ve been handed. He doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s weird,” she continues. “No one knows what’s wrong with him. If I can be honest with you, I think he’s intimidated by you. Or, like, he feels threatened or something, for some reason. It doesn’t happen very often, but that’s what it looks like.”

“Intimidated. By me?” he repeats, with a smirk. “You can’t be serious.”

She just shrugs. “It’s true. I know him. I know what he’s like.”

“Has he told you about me then?” And he hates himself the second the words come out of his mouth. Hates that he can feel this little pinch of hope in his heart.

“Well, he just straight up doesn’t talk, is the thing. It’s been like this since you and your family came here. You wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it, I suppose, but before you showed up he was a completely different person.”

“Right,” he says, still as confused as he was at first. “Can we… um. Can we stop talking about him now?”

“Yeah, sure. Let’s see the drinks then.”

The rest of the day’s just as nice. As agreed, Louis isn’t brought up again. He even manages to forget about him for a few hours.

Evening falls, and they’re both watching an old Hollywood film on television, sitting closer together than ever before, in the biggest sofa in the living room. Suddenly, the whirring sound of an engine resonates in the street right under them. Harry turns around and opens the shutters to take a look outside. It was the neighborhood boys and their huge Vespas. They’d stopped in front of their building and they were waiting, with their powerful headlights illuminating the street. One of them was combing his hair, holding a small pocket mirror in his hand.

Soon enough, Lottie and Gemma burst out of a room at the very end of the hallway, all dolled up, wearing their bikinis underneath what looked like very light clothing. They race to the front door in a gust of wind and slam it shut behind them. Alerted by the noise, Jay comes out of her own room, carrying little Ernest in her arms. She walks up to the window, just in time to catch sight of the girls, each one sitting at the back of a Vespa, their arms tight around their drivers. She just stares in disbelief, and then decides to do the first and only thing that comes to her mind.

“Louis?” she calls. “Will you come here for a second.”

A few seconds later he shows up in the hallway, his earphones still stuck in his ear, wearing nothing but Nike shorts. His eyes dart towards Harry and Félicité at first, but he doesn’t have time to react.

“The boys with the Vespas,” she says. “Lottie and Gemma left with them, could you please…”

“Hand me the keys.”

“Here,” she pulls the car keys out of her pocket and throws them at him. “You keep an eye on them from a _distance_ ,” she presses on her last word, “Understood? I don’t want a scandal.”

He runs out of the door.

“Maman,” says Félicité, hesitantly. “Can we go with him?”

Jay lets out a sigh. “Alright. Stay close, though. Tell him I want everybody back by 11 at the latest.”

*

It’s dead silent in the car. Louis’ driving, one hand on the wheel, and he hasn’t said a word yet. Every once in a while, he steals glances at them through the rearview mirror, like maybe he’s hoping to catch them red-handed.

“So what is it?” he pipes up at long last. “Are you two a thing, then?”

The tone of his voice is flat but somehow cautionary. Félicité just blushes while Harry holds his gaze through the tiny mirror.

“No,” he replies.

Louis just nods at that. He pulls into the parking lot by the beach, where the Vespas on which the girls have fled are parked. Further on, where it’s allowed, a campfire’s burning by the ocean, shining bright enough to blend in with the stars. There must be at least twenty of them – all kids from the little neighborhood. Loud music can be heard from a big loudspeaker, even through the car windows.

Louis pulls the key out of the ignition and lowers the backrest of his seat. He crosses his arm over his naked chest. There’s a little crease between his eyebrows; one that seems to appear whenever he’s upset or nervous. Lately, it seems to have taken up residence right there on his face.

“Aren’t you coming out?” Félicité asks.

“You can go if you want. I’m staying here. I’m watching them.”

In a sudden surge of audacity, she grabs Harry's hand, opens the door, and drags him out. They stumble down the sloping, sandy coast on their way to join the others on the beach. The night air is crisp and stings their nostrils a bit. They’re overwhelmed by the undeniable smell of cigarettes at first, and then by the saltier waft of the ocean. Gemma and Lottie are too busy dancing together by the water to notice them. The music’s loud, people are smoking and drinking and chatting loudly. After a while, they start passing a blunt around. When it reaches Harry, he considers refusing at first. But then he looks around at all these people. They’re everything he’s ever wanted to be. Grown-up, carefree, confident. He doesn’t want to be a little kid anymore. He doesn’t want to _feel_ like one. So he keeps it. He takes a puff, inevitably choking on the smoke and nearly coughing up his lungs. Félicité has a laugh at his expense, but she’s kind enough to walk him through the basics. She takes the blunt from him, places it between her lips, inhales the smoke, keeps it in for a while, and blows it out softly. An opaque cloud escapes from between her lips.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” he points out.

“Mm,” she nods. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”

He shakes his head no. They settle back on a spare beach towel and just watch, trying to hide their laughter while attempting to decipher what everybody’s saying in Spanish.

The wind rises, and for the moment it’s still nice. Now, Charlotte’s sitting on a random boy’s lap and they’re making out shamelessly, their hands all over each other. Gemma’s somewhere by the ocean, bickering with an older boy. Thankfully it doesn’t look very serious, because as soon as their little argument is settled, they jump at each other, stumbling down by the water, slow waves soaking them up as they exchange a fiery kiss.

It’s almost nine when the air starts getting colder. Harry notices his new friend is shivering next to him. Her bare legs are covered in goosebumps, and before he knows it he’s got his hand on her thigh, stroking her skin to try and warm her up. She indulges him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Want to get closer to the fire?” he suggests, his voice strangely raspy.

“No. I like it here. I know there’s a warmer shirt somewhere in the car. I’ll go get it.”

“Let me,” he says. “You stay here.”

“Hey, um… You’re coming back, aren't you? You’re not going to leave me alone here…” And when she says that, she sounds more worried than she should’ve been. He supposes there have been times in her life where she got stood up, and he can relate, so he stands up, dusting off the sand that’s stuck to his legs.

“I promise.”

As if his words carried with them some sort of permission, she takes his hand and pulls him in for a quick kiss on the lips. He freezes, feeling the blood rushing underneath his cheeks. She looks up at him expectantly but he simply doesn’t know what he's meant to say. So he leaves, each step heavier than the last, his feet dragging along the sand as he climbs up to the lot. He notices just how loud he’s breathing when he approaches the black car, and that’s when he remembers he’s got other issues waiting for him.

From the window on the driver’s side, Louis follows him with his eyes. And then.

“Stay away from my sister.”

Harry walks right past him and opens the sliding door in the back.

“I’m talking to you,” Louis says just a little louder, his head peeking out the window to look at him. “You think I didn’t see that?”

“So what?” he mumbles, turning on the light and rummaging through all the mess in the backseat to find Félicité’s shirt. Right now he’s sounding braver than he really is. He’s shaking inside, is the truth.

“So w…” He cuts himself off, jumping out of the car before walking up to him. He pulls Harry by the arm so he can face him, and shoves him against the car. “You stay away from her. I mean it.”

“Don’t touch me,” he grunts in protest and tries to push him away. “Who do you think you are?”

“Her brother.”

“Right. Are you going to assault each and every boy that gets close to your sisters? Why aren’t you beating up whoever’s making out with Charlotte over there?”

“I know what you are. And I know what you’re trying to do.”

The words come out like venom and bury their roots deep inside Harry’s veins. They’ve stopped clashing; eyes anchored in each other's. Louis’, cold and full of reproach, and Harry’s, stunned, and noticeably losing whatever’s left of the brave façade he’s put on. The wind’s blowing, yet Harry feels like he’s suffocating.

“I’m not doing anything,” he whispers in a muffled, barely audible voice.

He can feel Louis’ grasp on his arm getting just a bit tighter, his fingers sinking into his flesh. It hurts a bit, but he keeps his mouth shut. They’re standing so awfully close he can even get a whiff of his shampoo and the perfume he steals from his stepdad.

“It’s not going to work,” Louis says. “I’m not like you.”

And then, Louis unwillingly drops the act, tears welling up into his eyes. For a tiny, tiny moment, Harry has the upper hand and he thinks he’s got him figured out. “What about you, Louis? What are _you_ trying to do? Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” he mutters. “I’m… I’m not crying. We’re not the same.”

“Sure.”

All of a sudden, Louis releases him. “Get out of here. Go home. I’m not driving you back. Go.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He forgets all about the shirt and Félicité and walks on home, his arms crossed over his chest, trying to keep himself warm.

He doesn’t come out anymore. Doesn’t dare to show himself. His parents and sister go to the beach the next morning; he claims he’s feeling poorly, too tired to follow them. He spends the entire day in the living room, wrapped up in the biggest jumper he owns. He doesn’t even turn the TV on until he hears the sound of a key in the lock at around five, and then he pretends like he’s not just sat there all day long, staring at the black screen with his knees drawn up to his chest, trying so hard not to break down.

He only works up the strength to get out two days after the incident. He joins his parents at the beach, sticking to his mother. He doesn’t talk to anyone except for Félicité, who he makes a pathetic attempt at apologizing to. He knows he deserves to be called out and even insulted, but he also knows she’s far too nice to do it. She tells him “I’m sorry but I don’t really feel like talking to you right now,” and he doesn’t prod any further. He shuts down completely, and he’s back at square one.

He tells himself that they’re all going to be leaving at the end of this week, that this is almost over. But what he sees by the volleyball net makes him realizes his troubles are far from over.

The New Problem comes in the form of a beautiful young girl with golden, sun-kissed skin, long curly hair that reaches down to her back, a pair of breasts that would drive any well-constructed boy mad with desire (he doesn’t include himself in that category), a harmonious face and a frankly enchanting voice. He finds it hard to believe that a girl so perfect could just be walking the earth like this. Lottie _loathes_ her. She thinks she’s ridiculous. In some sort of abstract performance for both families, she tries to impersonate the girl by pressing the twins’ huge beach balls against her chest, _‘Oh, look at me, I’m a perfect, walking Barbie doll and every boy’s crazy about me! I don’t know why, though! Anyone knows? Anyone?’_

The absolute height of this story is that she appears to be Louis’ latest conquest. No one knows why, no one knows how, but the girl seems to have completely fallen for him. They play volleyball together, and she would climb on his back when he’d run into the waves. Harry saw them kissing once. It had cut off his appetite for an entire day. But this was nothing compared to what was awaiting him, two days before the Tomlinson’s’ were scheduled to leave.

Until now, he’s never even seen what Louis’ room looks like.

As he’s about to walk home one evening, his towel hanging around his neck, his hair still dripping wet, eyes fixated on his own feet, he hears someone calling him in the distance. He looks up, and his initial surprise gives way to plain distrust.

“Harry,” Louis repeats. “Come here. I need to talk to you.”

Before he can overthink, his feet lead him towards the gate. He doesn’t know what to expect and, if he’s honest he’s downright terrified. They’re face to face now.

“I’m sorry about the other night.”

He thinks he must be hallucinating. Louis can’t have just apologized. That can’t be true.

“Want to come over? We’re watching a movie with the girls.”

Harry searches for some semblance of warmth in his eyes. He doesn’t find any, yet his words sound sincere. He takes the risk of accepting, all his judgment collapsing under the piercing eyes of the boy who’s crept into his mind.

He finds all of Louis’ siblings in his room, except the baby twins. Lori, the pretty girl from the beach, is lying on his bed. She waves at them as soon as they walk through the door. Harry feels out of place right away. Louis’ room is basically uncharted territory at this point, and he feels like he’s defying some unwritten rule by standing on his floorboards. The window’s wide open, the shutters pressed against the wall as a light breeze flows in, blowing through the girls’ still wet hair from their day at the beach. Lottie, Félicité, and Gemma are sitting on the floor, sharing a huge bowl of pretzel with the twin girls.

“Harry, this is Lori,” Louis says with a grin. “ _Lori, este es Harry, el hermano de Gemma_.”

The girl sits up, patting the mattress as a way of inviting him to take a seat. She seems nice, he thinks, she’s got kind, warm eyes that elicit nothing but blinding trust. He understands why so many people are drawn to her. He sits down on the bed. He’s never felt so uncomfortable in his entire life. Here he is, in the room – scratch that – the bed of the boy who supposedly hated him from the second they met on his first day in Maravilla. And Louis… Well, he’s as unbothered as ever. He goes and lies down by Lori’s side, opposite of him, and turns the TV on. The Netflix logo soon pops up, and he asks the girls what they would like to watch. They debate for a while, and then the choice is unanimous: they want to watch a rom-com. They settle on a classic, and Louis puts on Spanish subtitles. Lori just smiles in return, snuggling up against him. Unconsciously, Harry scoots away from them, lying just shy of the edge of the bed.

Gemma turns the lights off and closes the shutters before the movie starts. But for the life of him, Harry can’t concentrate on a single thing that’s happening on the screen because of how overly aware he is of his proximity to Louis. The girls giggle quietly at the funniest scenes. And he wonders if anybody would notice if he just left.

The ending credits slowly roll on the screen, plunging the room into near-complete darkness. Louis orders the girls to clear the place. They do as he says. As they get up to leave, Harry feels something shift on the bed next to him. He can hear Louis and Lori making out noisily; he’s straddling her, one knee at either side of her hips. Harry takes it as his cue to leave, but as he goes to stand up, Louis’ hand reaches out and suddenly grabs him by his shirt, in a silent way of telling him to _stay_.

They kiss more eagerly, and Louis’ free hand slips underneath Lori’s shirt. He can hear their jerky breaths, soft chuckles in between kisses.

“Let go of me,” Harry whispers, his distress spiking by the second.

Of course, Louis does the exact opposite. He pulls him in by his shirt, clasping his fingers even tighter on the fabric. It’s only when he slips his hand down the girl’s shorts that Harry manages to free himself from his grip. He stands on the floor, on the verge of tears, and turns the bedside lamp on. Without even pulling apart from the kiss, Louis opens his eyes and stares right at him. And this is it, Harry thinks. By now they’ve both shown their true colors to each other. They hold each other’s stare for what seems like an eternity before Harry finally exits the room in turn.

*

On the last day that Louis and his family spend in Maravilla, the goodbyes last for _hours_. They exchange numbers with the Styles’, they promise to talk and meet up again at some point. Lottie and Gemma end up in tears as their mothers try to comfort them.

Harry’s the only one who remains entirely unfazed. How can he not be? His life’s just about to resume its normal course. So he waits, hiding behind Robin. He says goodbye to the little twins, and when he looks up again, he meets Louis’ eyes. He’s standing right behind Jay. And this time, Harry’s not afraid anymore. He doesn’t look down or away from his eyes.

Louis manages to sneak out into the hallway, never breaking eye contact. Harry gets the message loud and clear, and so he follows him into a random, empty room. The sun filters through the shutters, streaking the air with thin strips of light. They’re alone, muffled voices reaching them from behind the door.

Louis locks the door behind him, slowly walking up to the opposite side of the room, where a tall, wooden wardrobe stands. He stops and, suddenly he doesn’t seem so confident now. It’s like this charade he’s been holding up for weeks has just collapsed as soon as he pushed the lock. He looks terrified and so vulnerable Harry might as well be looking into the mirror.

Louis is a living contradiction. All this toughness, this grit among his charm; all this warmth, this tenderness among his strength. It’s madness.

Harry rubs his own arm up and down and, against all odds, he dares to speak out first.

“How was it with her?”

“Bloody amazing.”

He has uttered the words with the sole aim of convincing him, of erasing all the doubts that lingered in the air despite weeks of hard work. Today, though, they sound awfully wrong. Harry has worked him out already, and his heart’s racing as he braces himself for what he’s about to do. He takes a few steps on the cold floor; Louis keeps perfectly still, waiting, nervous, his gaze going back and forth between his left and right eye. And then he goes for it. He kisses Louis. Or rather, he just presses his lips against his, softly, imperceptibly, like the wings of a hummingbird in motion. It’s soft, and against his mouth, Louis’ lips are strangely warm and silky smooth.

When he comes to his senses, Louis brutally shoves him away. “What _the fuck_ are you doing?”

Harry recovers quickly and grabs both of his forearms. Louis struggles in his grip, pushing him against the wardrobe door, which slams shut with a loud, thumping noise. It’s not enough to drive him away. He inches closer and presses one kiss on his cheek, and another one on his mouth.

And then,

Louis lets go.

It’s barely even a kiss. Their lips brush against each other, pull apart and then do it all over again, so coy and timid, like they’re testing the waters, hoping to stay just a little longer this time. Cautiously, Louis brings a hand up to Harry’s cheek, holding his face, marveling at the softness of his skin. They keep on kissing as the blood rushes under their cheeks, as their names are being called from the hallway, as they grow weak at the knees. They kiss with their mouths closed, still. The pecking noises it makes every time is enough to send shivers down their spines. Louis doesn’t kiss him the way he kissed Lori that day. With him, he does it as if rejection was looming right ahead. He does it like he’s not sure he’s even allowed to.

Surprisingly, Harry’s the one who tries to put an end to it. He pushes him back gently, one hand flat against his chest. Louis understands, he doesn’t insist. Actually, yes, he does. Their lips meet again one last time, they kiss for so long they start to lose track of time – but the thing is that it’s so gentle and so wary, and so heart-wrenchingly innocent it doesn’t even feel wrong.

They pull apart for good, their minds completely empty. Louis’ eyes are wide open, and a bit wet too. Harry stares him down in silence, out of words. He has one hand against the wardrobe, his body half-turned towards the door, and he looks at Louis, taking him in one last time before leaving.


	2. The Second Summer

That same year in December, at the dawn of his seventeenth birthday, Louis spends entire days online, browsing the national rank of architecture schools. The one in Paris catches his attention, and he spends a little more time on its website.

He’s lying in his bed in the dark, his laptop screen casting a bright light on his face. He hears two little knocks at the door, so he turns on his bedside lamp. His mum slips in with the house phone in her hand, her lips stretched into a little smile – it must be good news, he tells himself. She asks if she can sit on his bed and he nods in response.

“I just spoke to Anne on the phone.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, an octave too high for his liking, and clears his throat in embarrassment. He doesn’t like where this is going.

“She’s coming over next summer when the girls will be at Mark’s. Harry’s coming along too.”

Louis closes his laptop screen. He looks at her expectantly, as if she could grasp by the mere look on his face just how distressed he was. Jay could take a hint, as it turns out, more often than not. Now though, she doesn't seem to find anything wrong with the fact that _Harry_ was going to come _here_ and _stay_ with them.

“Is Gemma coming?” he asks in a small voice.

“I don’t think so. But Harry definitely is… What are you thinking?”

“Don’t know,” he says, fingers idly toying with the laptop’s cable. “It’s not like there’s anything to do in Poligny. Won’t they get bored?”

“Well, they used to live here, remember? Besides, it’s only for a week. Anyway, about Harry…Anne’s told me he just set up a Facebook account a few months ago. Why don’t you add him there and have a little chat? Maybe then it’d be easier to talk.”

Louis doesn't answer.

“ _Regarde_ , I’m just telling you. If he shows up here next July and you start acting the way you did last summer, I’ll…”

“Okay! Okay, fine. I’ll add him, all right?”

“I want you to behave.”

“I will!” he insists, mildly annoyed.

“Add him. Right now, I’m watching you.”

With a dramatic sigh, he opens his laptop and shifts on his bed. Jay scoots over to have a better look at the screen. He opens Facebook and starts typing Harry’s name on the search bar. “What’s his last name again?”

“Styles. With a Y.”

“What kind of name is that? ‘S not even French…”

“His family on his dad’s side is English, now stop judging.”

There’s only one result. So, Louis clicks on it – there’s no profile picture, but it says he lives in Bordeaux and that his birthday’s on February 1st.

“That’s him,” she confirms with a little smile and Louis sends him a friend request. “ _Merci, mon Lou_ ,” she whispers and presses a quick kiss to his cheek.

“What if he declines?”

“You’ll have tried, at least,” she chuckles and gets off the bed. “I’ll leave you to it.”

As soon as she leaves, he turns the light off and falls back on the pillow with a sigh, the laptop still on his knees. It’s a clear sky; the moon is drenching the country with its soft glow, beaming upon the bare branches of the beech tree and casting their shadows on Louis’ walls. As a child, he’d get stricken with fear whenever there was a heavy gust of wind; the shadows looked straight out of a horror movie.

He straightens up and decides to take a look at his profile. There’s not a single picture, and he’s only got thirteen friends. He scrolls down the page and finds a couple of posts. It looks like he’s shared a whole lot of petitions and it’s quite obvious that he cares a lot about animals and global warming.

_Change.org Petition: Save the blue whales! End commercial whaling in Iceland and Japan._

_Change.org Petition: Shut down SeaWorld. + 5 things you can do to help._

_SUMOF.US Petition: Going against the Paris Agreement, these banks continue to subsidize extreme fossil fuel projects and companies. Sign and share now._

Louis finds himself smiling. He signs every petition he’s shared, and then he gets a new notification. Harry’s just accepted his request and Louis freezes, fingers hovering over the keyboard. His heart is palpitating like a small bird as he recalls their last day in Maravilla. He remembers his lips, the softness and the roundness of his cheek, the apprehension in his eyes at first. He remembers everything.

He opens the instant chat box and quickly types something.

**_hi_ **

His message is read almost as soon as he sends it. He can see that Harry’s writing something back and he nearly closes the screen. But then something pops up.

**_What do you want?_ **

Taken aback, Louis first writes “my mum’s forced me to add you” but deletes it almost immediately. Instead, he sends:

_**just found you & thought we could chat here** _

**_Sure._ **

Then, nothing. Three excruciatingly long minutes go by and Louis doesn’t know what to do. He closes his laptop and lies back down in a futile attempt to forget about it and go to sleep. Of course, he can’t bring himself to do it, so he picks up his phone, opens the Messenger app, and types: 

**_so you’re an activist then?_ **

And this time, he gets an answer.

_**These things matter.** _

_**agreed. i signed everything btw** _

_**Thank you.** _

_**my mum told me you were coming to Poligny next summer… is it safe to say that you’d rather go somewhere else?** _

_**I did want to stay home.** _

_**ouch** _

_**It’s got nothing to do with you.** _

_**a little tho… right?** _

Harry reads his last message and starts typing. And typing. And typing. It stretches on for several seconds, and when it reaches a full minute, Louis just closes the app. He hasn’t got it in him, can’t bring himself to read the full-length novel he’s probably writing and in which he’s likely going to list all the reasons why Louis hates himself. He’s not sure what went wrong. Their conversation had started on a good note. Although Harry had been a little cold – he had every reason to be – he’d played the game up until now.

He doesn’t go to bed just yet. He opens Instagram instead and types his name. Among the five results, he finds _h.styles04_ , a private account with no posts. Just as he starts feeling like he’s hit a dead-end, he finds Gemma’s account. All of Louis’ sisters follow her – it has to be her. So, he scrolls down her feed and looks at her pictures. There’s one where her face is painted in blue, white, and red, celebrating France’s victory in the World Cup. There’s one where she’s at a club with some friends. Another one at the beach in Maravilla with Charlotte – they’re posing together with piña coladas. He keeps scrolling down until he finds a picture from three years ago. Her hair is a little darker. It’s nighttime, the Eiffel tower’s shining in the background and Gemma’s hugging a boy who sort of looks like Harry. Louis zooms on it and, sure enough, it is. His hair was a lot shorter; he must have been ten or eleven years old at most, with full cheeks and little dimples indenting them. This – this is the only picture of him on the entire web.

As if on cue, Harry finally answers. And it’s one word:

_No_

Louis doesn’t even have time to react, Harry sends a new one straight away:

_Why did you have to change schools?_

It was as though he’d spent all that time trying to come up with the worst possible question – and he’d won. Louis puts his phone away. They don’t talk again.

*

Harry’s fifteen years old.

He knows he’s growing up and he’s aware that he’s changing by the day, but that doesn’t mean he likes what his reflection shows him. Sometimes he’ll get naked in front of the mirror and just look at himself – inspecting, scrutinizing every little detail, and sometimes he’ll do it for so long he loses track of time and forgets his own name. He can hardly believe that one day someone will eventually love him like grown-ups love each other. He finds it plainly laughable.

He doesn’t hate a whole lot of people. He hates the president of the United States, he hates the person who said you had to love yourself if you want to be loved, but above all, he hates himself. He’s the only person he ever wants to hit and scratch and pinch, whenever he crosses his own path every morning on the small bathroom mirror.

He doesn’t like to talk about it, doesn’t want his mum and sister to worry, doesn’t want Robin to know. What could be worse than marrying a woman with the prospect of living happily ever after, and then having to deal with her black cloud of a son?

He only ever tells Charlie about it. Charlie, who’s eighteen and who _understands_. When it gets bad, Harry spends the day over at his house, sometimes he’ll spend the night too. He’ll sleep a lot – Charlie’s bed is so big and soft and comfy and warm, he’ll lie down and feel like he’s floating, like a whole weight’s just been lifted from his shoulders. And Charlie just seems to know what to do. He’ll sit at his desk across from him and he’ll talk and talk and talk, on and on, he’ll cover any and everything just to help him get his mind off of the emptiness.

Harry wonders, isn’t emptiness just… emptiness? If so, then why is it taking so much space?

And when it gets really, really bad, Charlie slides under the covers with him. He holds him close and tight, almost suffocating him. Still, Harry’s grateful. In those times, he feels safe and whole, as though his best friend’s arms were the only thing that could hold him in one piece and save him from falling apart.

*

Harry and Anne arrive by train in Poligny, in the middle of the Jura vineyard, on a breezy July morning. The air is crisp and light, still glistening with that fine sort of mist that usually lingers around long after the sunrise. The mountains of the massif dominate the landscape, distant and serene, green, and a little blurry too. Along the road, Anne can’t help but peer around in awe, her childhood memories popping up one by one, on every corner of every street, in every little shop, every familiar face. She’s spent a large part of her life in the little commune, and at times she longed for this quiet existence. Behind her, Harry is dragging his suitcase along with him, the tiny wheels whirring against the gravel. When the sun finally pierces the veil of clouds, he holds his hand up to his forehead to cover his eyes, which have always been overly sensitive to the light. Anne shows him around, blabbering on about the history of the place. He tunes her out for a bit.

Jay and Dan’s house is typical of the region. Anne and Harry get there at around noon. The walls are a solid beige, inlaid with a rank of dark bricks on the edges. The roof tiles are a burnt orange, the dark green paint on the shutters flaking away with the years. There’s a vast clearing surrounding the house, with tall trees and tiny shrubs; he notices an old beech tree near the back, and by the look of it, it must have lived for more than a century. On the sides, a set of wooden stairs leads up to a pair of large French windows, and all along the edges stand a dozen of small peonies, growing together in well-aligned little pots.

Before they know it, Jay appears in front of them. She had been in the back and had heard them coming, so she runs up to them, her long navy-blue dress floating behind her. She takes her gardening gloves off and jumps into Anne’s arms. As they hug and greet each other, Harry stands aside and just takes it in. And as he looks at Jay, he tells himself that he’s never seen anyone quite like her. She reminds him of the sun. Bright, warm, beautiful, timeless, and full of life. He thinks summer suits her better than anyone.

She greets him with a cheerful hello and a kiss on both of his cheeks.

“It's lovely to see you! You’ve grown up again, look at you!”

Harry just smiles, a little embarrassed.

“And look at all this hair,” she points out the wild, unruly curls, held back by an old bandana.

“Tell me about it,” Anne answers for him. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried to take him to get a haircut… He just-”

“Oh, well if he likes it that way, that's fine, isn't it? He's still very handsome.”

In a parallel universe and under different circumstances, Harry would’ve believed her, would’ve appreciated her little compliment and he probably would’ve said thank you. But in this universe, he doesn’t say anything.

Jay takes them to the backyard. And there in the middle stands a large wooden table surrounded by ten wicker chairs. Under the beech tree is what appears to be a playing area for the little ones; a swing set, a slide, and a tiny sandbox where the twins are currently playing. 

Anne and Harry take seats at the table, and Jay serves them both a typical Franche-Comté salad. She pours Harry a glass of lemonade and saves a bottle of their best yellow wine for Anne. She sits down with them and tells them about their winegrower neighbors, whose goods have become the talk of the town – and even of the whole region. Jay’s family is entitled to a generous sample of their products every summer.

Harry listens with half an ear, stabbing his fork in the middle of his plate and bringing it up to his mouth. His gaze wanders all around and settles on the little twins. Ernest and Doris are building a sandcastle together, and when Johannah calls them they come running to the table, _“Vous dites bonjour?”_

They take turns offering little kisses on Anne and Harry’s cheeks, and then the little redhead takes a brave step forward and asks Harry, “Was it you who sneezed all the time because of the sun?”

Harry lets out a little laugh, “Yes. That was me.”

“You made us laugh,” says Doris.

Harry smiles at her and finishes his salad before offering to take both suitcases inside.

“Door’s open, _mon chéri_ ,” says Jay. “Just leave them in the hallway.”

There’s not a hint of wood inside the house, the walls look rock solid and the floor’s all tiles. It must be a real task to keep everything clean. He can’t help but notice dozens of framed photographs hanging on the walls. Baby pictures and family holidays and school photos; everyone’s there. There are little traces of paint and colorful fingerprints on the wall, right at the ground level, and a quite frankly hefty amount of house plants of all sizes. It doesn’t take him long to fall in love with the house. For some far-out reason, he feels safe, almost at home. The place was alive in a way that most houses never were and told the story of several years with just a few quirks and details.

After a while spent wandering down the hallway, he comes across the picture of a little boy with eyes bluer than the sky; it looks like a school picture from kindergarten. The vision is enough to bring him back to Earth. He’s not ready just yet – he can feel his heart beating in his temples. Out of fear of bumping into him, he dashes out of the house and finds his way back to Anne at the big table. The little twins are sitting down and eating from their own plates.

“I would’ve loved to see the girls,” says Anne.

“Yeah… Well, they’re staying with their dad ‘til August. That was the plan,” she says, pouring herself another glass of yellow wine and swatting a tiny mosquito away. “Lottie and Félicité love it over there, Daisy and Phoebe not so much, weirdly enough.”

“Does Mark still live in Montpellier?” she asks, silently offering to cut a piece of carrot cake for Harry, who refuses quietly.

“He does. Mark never did like the Jura, as it turns out. He was always talking about selling the house and moving down South… Do I look like a _sudiste_ to you?”

Anne just shakes her head seriously.

“Right? I love my mountains. They keep me sane. So anyway, he agreed to have the girls over once a year in the summer… Otherwise, you know, it’d be too complicated… Those are _his_ words. At least I’ve got my babies here with me,” she says with a little smile, looking over tenderly at the children who were too busy eating and tearing their bread apart.

“Just the girls?” Anne frowns in confusion and Harry looks back and forth between her and Jay, munching on the last of his bread. “How often does he get to see Louis?”

“Oh, Louis doesn’t want anything to do with him. And I’m not going to insist. Sometimes he’ll even say, he’s not my dad, I don’t have a dad.”

“I can see why.”

Harry feels like his mum knows something he doesn’t.

“Where _is_ Louis, by the way? We haven’t even seen him yet!”

“He’s working. Says he needs the money, don’t know what for, though. There’s not much to do here, but the neighbors... they own a vineyard just a couple yards away, they’ve hired him for the summer. It’s good money, I mean,” she shrugs, sipping on the last of her wine. “I told him he could travel if he wants, take a train to Paris to see his cousins and go on a trip, but it’s just piling up in his piggy bank. I really wish I could know what he’s saving up for.”

Right then, Harry works up the courage to speak, “When will he be back?”

His tone of voice was cautious and guarded – something that wouldn’t betray the anxiety that had seized him a few moments ago; the same one that was currently making his fingers tremble a little under the table.

“Seven o’clock, _chéri_ ,” says Jay. “Why, you want to see him?”

He knows he shouldn’t have spoken. He was quiet long enough to rouse her interest, and so she looks at him with a little smile, tilting her head to the side. “You two spoke this year, didn’t you?” she asks, full of hope.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “A bit.”

“You’re better now, aren’t you?”

“I think so.”

“It’s beyond me, you know. If you knew how you two were at the time… Like this,” she says, putting two fingers up in the air, stuck to each other. “Inseparable.”

After lunch, as soon as he starts yawning, Jay offers to show him around. She guides him through the big house and tells him he can help himself in the kitchen and make himself at home. He’s got all of Félicité’s room to himself. It’s empty, and Jay says all the sheets have been cleaned and changed. She gives him the Wi-Fi password, he thanks her quietly and she walks out, leaving him alone in the middle of the room. He knows deep down that if he makes the mistake of lying down, he won’t get up again. So, he settles for a quick shower instead.

Later on, they gather around in the big living room, with its colorful couches and the sun pouring in from the windows. Harry’s sitting next to his mum, who wraps an arm around his waist and squeezes him close – the gesture’s quite unsettling. It’s become so rare. He tries to shrug the uneasiness off as Jay flips through a massive photo album.

“I know it must be in there somewhere... saw it just a week ago… Ah, there you go! That was just a month before you and your family moved to Bordeaux. See? That’s Louis on your right. He was five at the time.”

Jay hands him the photo and he handles it with the utmost care. He recognizes himself as a child. He’s wearing this orange jumper with white stripes; his golden hair was in a bowl cut and his smile was as big as the world, revealing tiny little spaced out teeth. He’s showing his hands to the camera; they were covered in green paint. And sure enough, next to him is Louis. He’s smiling at the camera – his hands are painted blue.

“That’s funny,” says Harry. “Now that I look at us, it’s all coming back to me. I remember that day.”

“Oh… Look. Here’s another one,” she whispers, her eyes twinkling with glee as she hands him another picture. He can sense this growing lump in his throat. It’s the two of them sleeping in the same bed, so little and helpless and huddled close together.

“Do you believe me now? Two peas in a pod, you were. Attached at the hip. Oh, how Louis cried when you moved. It broke my heart, it did. That’s why I thought…. Nevermind, now.”

Jay puts the two photos away and continues to flip through the album with Anne, uncovering deeply buried memories that made them most nostalgic and filled with longing for the past.

*

Louis gets off work a little past seven. Around that time, Harry’s busy helping Jay with dinner. He’s slowly taking a liking to this place; the kitchen isn’t as crowded as the one they have back home – there’s room to pace around and plenty of counter space to work on. When the clothes weren’t hanging up to dry on the rack, the sun would pour inside from the French window, drowning everything in its soft golden light. The view was breathtaking; it was overlooking the little clearing, and in the distance, you could make out the shape of the massif, spreading itself far ahead in some kind of misty dream.

He loves cooking too. It's one of the few things he knows he's good at if Jay’s little compliments are anything to go by.

The front door opens and closes almost immediately, and he can hear Louis running to the bathroom without having said a single word. Almost immediately, the shower turns on. So, naturally, he keeps on slicing the bell peppers for the salad and tries not to think about Louis’ naked body underneath the water jet. And about fifteen minutes later, Louis storms into the kitchen. With a brisk pace, he heads straight for the counter, overwhelming his mum with hugs and kisses, clinging onto her like his life depends on it. He stops as he notices Harry standing in a corner.

Harry puts down his knife, and when their eyes meet for the first time again, something just clicks into place.

It’s not like Louis’ grown up a whole lot or anything, but there’s something about him that’s changed somehow. Harry looks at him and the first thing that hits him is that he looks more…mature. He tells himself it might be due to his new haircut; it’s a little shorter, not so all-over-the-place anymore. And he’s wearing this old grey jumper with a zipper that goes up to his chin and makes him look quite rustic if he’s honest. His skin isn’t as tan, he even looks a little pale, and it’s all Harry can pick up in those few seconds before Louis walks up to him and presses a gentle kiss to one cheek, and on to the other.

“Welcome,” Louis whispers, his face all soft.

Harry’s lips stretch into a shy, pale little smile and Louis turns back to his mum, “I’ll set the table,” he says, already pulling some plates out of a cabinet. “Are we eating outside?”

“Sure,” she nods and watches him leave, her brows knitted together in a confused look. “Go say hi to Anne, she’s in the living room with the kids.”

“Alright.”

For dinner, they’re having a Morteau sausage gratin. Harry had made the béchamel sauce all by himself, and Jay’s been drowning him in compliments ever since she took the first bite.

They’re eating outside in the backyard, as was apparently their habit around here – and for good reason, too. It’s nice and warm, and the sun hasn’t quite set just yet. They’re talking – Louis’ doing the most of it, surprisingly enough. He’s leading the entire conversation. Harry watches him in awe – astonished, and a little frightened by how grown, wise and composed he looks. A far cry from the boy he thought he knew last summer. And as he speaks, he can hear his accent for the first time. He hasn’t really had the chance of hearing it back in Maravilla, and he thinks it’s quite lovely.

Harry finds himself wondering if he’ll ever be like him, one day. He doubts it.

In the midst of his idle contemplation, he misses his own mouth as he brings his food up to his cheeks. He ends up dropping the little bite of sausage onto his plate. Louis clocks him from the corner of his eye and smiles at him discreetly.

As the conversation shifts toward school, Jay mentions that Louis has definitely set his sights on the private school for architecture in Paris. He still has one last year of high school, but his mind is set, and he's working tirelessly towards getting accepted.

“See?” she whines, falsely grieved. “He’ll go and leave me all alone in here.”

Louis chokes on his salad. “ _Maman_! You’ve got six other kids!” She bursts out laughing as he continues, “Just wait ‘til the girls get back. I’ll tell them what you said and they won’t let you hear the end of it.”

“I was just joking, _pour l’amour du ciel_ … And I know there’s not much to do around here. Unless your goal in life is to end up working as a winegrower or in the dairy industry, then you’re in the right place… I know the region’s not for you. I’d be delighted if you went to Paris, don’t get me wrong.”

Louis smiles at her and pours himself a glass of wine. While doing so, he meets Harry’s insistent gaze. “Want some?” he offers, handing him the bottle over the table.

“Um… Maybe not now,” Anne intervenes with an uncomfortable smile.

“Oh, go on,” Jay insists. “Just a tiny little drop! Look, you can’t come here, in what’s otherwise known as the yellow wine region, and not have a little taste. That’d be just sad.”

“Alright,” Anne concedes. “Just a taste, though. Don’t fill it up.”

With a tiny nod, Louis asks him for his glass. Harry hands it to him, still hesitant as he assesses his mum’s expression from the corner of his eye. Louis fills it up halfway and settles back to watch him, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Harry takes a careful little sip. Suffice it to say, it's not love at first taste. His nose scrunches up at first, but his face softens a little as he senses a faint hazelnut flavor.

“So?” Jay asks, expectantly.

“I could get used to this.”

*

It wouldn’t be the first time that Harry’s had a bad night. He has tossed and turned on the bed for a good part of the night, his thoughts too loud and overwhelming, drifting in and out of sleep. He comes to find that the few hours of sleep he usually manages to get – on a good day – are the only resemblance of rest he ever gets to feel. His mind is like a whirring, tireless machine that he wishes he knew how to shut down.

The next morning, he quietly makes his way down the hallway and toward the dining room. Jay’s already up and running, so he helps her set the table for breakfast. With a knowing glance, she reminds him that it’s Saturday, that Louis doesn’t work and that they might be able to go for a walk, just the two of them. Harry doesn’t know what to reply to that.

Everyone seems to be asleep still, so they eat alone at the breakfast table, face to face. Jay slices through a thick loaf of bread as Harry starts looking around. He asks her if Dan is ever going to join them, she says his job has got him traveling a lot, that he won’t be back until next Friday and that until then, it’ll only be them in the big house.

A little later, they hear the unmistakable noise of shuffling feet in the hallway. Louis walks in, still a little drowsy, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. He walks around the table, goes straight to hug his mum from behind the chair, and doesn’t let go until she gently pushes him away. He drops into the empty chair next to her. There’s something about this soft side of him that Harry finds deeply endearing. He knows he hasn’t let his guard down entirely, but this looks like a good start.

“How’d you sleep?” Louis asks, with a short nod directed at him.

“Good,” Harry lies – he’s definitely had better nights. Jay seems satisfied with the exchange, and Harry suspects that she might have had something to do with that sudden surge of politeness on Louis’ part. He even allows himself to believe that she may have slipped him a few coins under the table. At that point, bribery seems more plausible than Louis being nice to him just for the sake of it.

Just as Louis starts spreading some butter onto a thick slice of brioche, Ernest waddles into the dining room, his sister closely trailing behind, asking for food. Leaving his plate aside, Louis leaves the table and sets on making breakfast for the little ones.

“Got anything planned today?” Jay asks.

“Not really. Why?”

“Well, why don’t you and Harry go for a walk?”

Louis has his back turned to them; his hands busy cleaning the tray on one of the high chairs with a wet wipe. Harry can’t see his reaction but he takes note of the sudden stiffness in his posture.

“Mhm…” his voice falters. “There’s not much to see around here.”

“Of course there is. Just walk around. There’s lots of… historical monuments.”

“Historical monuments,” he deadpans, clearly unimpressed.

“Yes,” she says. “Alright, it’s a beautiful day. And I could give you a little money so you can grab something to eat. And if you go down the trails, you know the ones that cut through the undergrowth? Once you climb up you get a beautiful view. It’s the… the cross… What’s the name?”

“ _La croix du Dan_.”

“That one.”

Louis gives their meals to the little ones and sits back down, scratching the back of his neck. “Will you come with us?” he asks, with a hint of uneasiness in his voice that Harry instantly picks up.

“I’ve got work to do.”

“Your ‘work’ is just you sitting with your laptop. You can clock in whenever you want. _Maman_ , please…”

“I don’t mind it being just the two of us,” Harry chimes in quietly, hoping this would smooth things out. And that seems to do the trick – Louis gives in.

After breakfast, the boys wash up and start getting ready.

A comforting silence reigns in the house.

There’s a tall mirror in Félicité’s room. Harry stands before it, stretching a long, dark green bandana all the way, twisting it and wrapping it around his head to hold his hair back. As he lifts his arms up to tie the bandana into a knot at the back of his head, his striped shirt hikes up a little, revealing smooth, pale skin stretching over his stomach. Behind his own reflection, right by the door is where he spots Louis, who’s patiently waiting outside the room, watching him intently. There’s not much left of last summer’s sheepishness and little games. He’s downright staring, and owning it. For now.

They step outside and into the – still bearable – morning heat. Louis shoves his housekeys into his shorts’ pockets and rushes past him, outpacing him in what seems like a silent way of setting the tone for that day. Harry just follows without question, rolling up his own sleeves and enjoying their little stroll along the quiet, quaint streets and empty alleys. It was an old-fashioned, nostalgically attractive little place who’d passed the test of time with flying colors. You didn’t get that timeless, serene feeling in big cities.

“It’s nice, in here,” Harry says, attempting to break the ice. He doesn’t get an answer, but Louis seems to be slowing down as if to allow him to catch up and close their physical gap. “Why didn’t you go to Spain this year?”

Louis avoids looking at him, shoving both of his hands in his pockets, “We sold the apartment.”

“It was yours?”

They stop at a crossroads. Louis leads them toward a narrow pathway, slowly moving away from the pedestrian street. “Yes,” he says. “It used to belong to Dan – my stepdad. He inherited it from his dad before he met my mum. And then over the years, we fixed what needed fixing… we spruced it up a little. It was a lot nicer than the rest of the neighborhood in Maravilla. And by the end, it was just worth so much money, and I’m probably moving to Paris and that private school’s going to cost an arm, so he sold it.”

They pass by an old, imposing building behind a fence, with decorated arches and big, sturdy columns. Louis tells him about the old Ursuline Convent, where local girls used to get an education before the Revolution of 1789. After a devastating fire in the early 20th century, the building was restored and turned into social housing. Harry just nods along, attempting to picture what it could’ve looked like in its prime days.

“You didn’t live that far from here,” says Louis. “I think, just down that street, over there.”

The morning stretches on at the same pace. They stroll around, casually chatting– it never goes further than dull, small talk and futile conversation about the town and the region in general. At some point, as Louis is rambling on about his own childhood, he brings up their old forgotten friendship, drawing a picture that Harry has a hard time visualizing. He and Louis are so cold and distant from one another, it's hard to believe that they once had been as close as brothers were.

The morning has been fine, but it was growing warm and sultry. There isn't a hint of a cloud in the sky. Neither of them has thought of bringing a cap or sunglasses; they have to squint whenever the sun is facing them. As they climb up a slightly sloping alleyway, gently huffing out with the effort, Harry glances over at him. The first thing he notes is the translucent blue of his eyes, and how smooth his skin looks under the sun. There are tiny droplets of sweat on his forehead.

“Are you hungry?” Louis asks once they reach somewhat of a plateau, reaching in his pocket to count his money. “It’s almost lunchtime.”

“A little.”

“We could take a bus to Arbois. It’s a little town, not so far from here. There's a lot more to do over there… And it’s prettier, I suppose.”

“Sure.”

They reach the bus stop in no time, but there’s no bench. Overheated and worn out from the hike, they settle down side by side on the edge of the sidewalk to give their feet a well-needed rest. Harry doesn’t know how long it’ll take for the bus to come, but he can’t bear this any longer. He needs to know how he feels. And so, with his heart up in his throat, he asks, “Do you want to talk about last summer?”

Louis doesn’t budge. “What about last summer?”

“Do you regret it?”

They both knew what “it” was referring to. Louis turns his back to him, eyes fixed on the end of the street, where the bus was supposed to appear – sometime soon, he hopes. “Regret what?”

“I don’t know,” Harry whispers, his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. “You tell me.”

A few excruciatingly long seconds tick by, and Louis replies, soft and low, “I don’t regret anything at all.” This time, he turns to look at him. Harry’s still staring closely, as in a daze, looking back and forth between his eyes and his mouth.

“Neither do I.”

“It’s a small town, Harry,” he says. “The people here – they’re all up in each other’s business. That’s all they know how to do.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want any trouble.”

Harry seems to understand. He gives a single nod, never taking his eyes off of him. To lighten the mood a little, Louis bites his lip, holding back a smile, and says, “The bandana. _Ça te va bien._ It suits you.”

This might just be the nicest sequence of words that he’s ever heard from Louis’ mouth. And so far, no one has ever complimented him on this new habit which, quite frankly, was nothing more than him being lazy and not wanting to bother with his hair. His lips stretch into a little grin, his dimple popping up on the right side of his mouth. Louis looks at it tenderly. He doesn’t dare to touch it yet.

They get back from Arbois at around six in the afternoon. They walked around the town, ate in a cozy little café, and took a long, tiring hike in the woods. Harry’s feet hurt and his knees are just about to give up as he climbs the three little steps leading to the door. They find their mothers in the kitchen, and Jay’s delighted to see them coming back together. She asks them how their day was, and Louis tells her all about it. Harry slips away and into the bathroom for a much-needed shower.

They have dinner outside, once again, in the early evening. The sun is still shining in the distance, its timid rays fading away, tinting the sky with hues of golds and reds. _Radio Nostalgie_ is playing on a tiny radio set, on the corner of the table. Harry isn’t taking part in any kind of discussion. He’s eating – and he’s eating fast. The hike has whetted his appetite for good, to Anne’s greatest delight. At home, it wasn’t rare for her to insist multiple times on him finishing his plate. He pours himself a little glass of yellow wine and this time, Anne doesn’t interfere. He hands the bottle to Louis, who thanks him out loud.

“Oh, so you’re on speaking terms now,” Anne points out, pleasantly surprised.

“Uh-huh,” Harry replies distractedly, filling his plate up with a generous second helping.

“No questions asked?” Jay adds, smiling at them.

“ _Non_ ,” Louis confirms, pouring himself a drink in turn.

By the end of the meal, Harry starts to dive down. He almost falls asleep on the table and that makes the little twins laugh. Jay can’t help but notice how tired he looks all of a sudden, and there’s a hint of concern in her voice, even though it’s meant to poke fun at him, “ _Chéri_ , the sun hasn’t even set yet… Falling asleep already?”

“Think I’ve exhausted him,” Louis chimes in lightheartedly. “He won’t be able to function for a few days. Gave him the _grand tour_.”

“Right, you two went all the way to Arbois, didn't you?” Jay says, and Louis just nods. “Well, that figures. It’s okay, though. It’s raining all day tomorrow, anyway.” That reminds her that the laundry’s still hanging on the rope. As soon as she finishes eating, she stands up, grabs a large wicker basket, and starts unclasping the bedsheets and the dry clothes from the wire. Louis stands up in turn, he walks around the table to pick up dirty plates and makes a few trips between the backyard and the kitchen to take everything back. Then, suddenly, upon hearing the first few notes of her favorite song, Jay puts everything down. “That’s my song.”

Louis rolls his eyes and starts picking up empty glasses around the table. Jay runs to him before he has time to leave and hugs him from behind, slowly rocking him to the slow rhythm of the song and singing the lyrics out loud as Anne watches with a smile, looking rather entertained. “D’you remember?” Jay asks her, full of hope, burying her chin against Louis’ shoulder.

“ _Et comment…_ Of course, I do,” Anne sighs, overwhelmed by the memories of their teenage years and the carefree life they used to lead in the little commune.

Louis helplessly tries to slip away. “ _Maman,_ I can’t breathe.”

“Sing with me! _C’est un endroit, qui ressemble à la Louisiane…_ _À l’Italie_ …”

“I don’t know the lyrics,” he protests, placing his hands on her arms. He knows he could just push her away if he wanted to. But he doesn’t.

“Yes, you do, everyone does! _On dirait le sud..._ _Le temps dure longtemps... Et la vie sûrement..._ _Plus d’un million d’années... Et toujours en été_ …”

When Harry sees Louis’ cheeks slowly gaining a rosy tinge, he smiles, not out of mockery, but mostly because he thinks he’s lovely, and it’s heartwarming to see just how much love they had for each other. He and his mum were a team, there was no doubt about it.

“I promise you,” Louis says. “I’ve never heard that song before.”

“Well, I can’t blame you, can I? Nino Ferrer isn’t your generation,” she concludes, kissing him on the cheek.

“It’s not yours either!” he objects. “You’re not that old.”

“Thank you _, mon amour_.”

He finally manages to escape and retreats inside the house once and for all. Jay picks up the laundry basket, and holds her hand out for the twins to grab onto; it’s bath time for them. As she heads for the backdoor, just before disappearing inside, she spins around, just halfway, and calls on Anne and Harry, “Come on in!”

And then she leaves. Harry doesn’t dare to look at his own mother. He twists his arm behind himself, scratching at the middle of his back, an uneasy feeling gnawing at his stomach.

“They’re adorable, aren’t they?” Harry just nods, and she adds, “Did you know he still sleeps in her bed…”

His eyes open wide. “Really?”

“Really. Nothing weird, of course. Sometimes he’ll kick his stepdad out of the bedroom just to take his place. I don’t think you can comprehend just how much love these two have for each other. They’ve been doing that since he was a little kid, she told me all about it, last night.”

“What is this, some kind of twisted Oedipus complex?”

“Not quite. He’s just very protective of her. He says she’s been hurt too many times, by too many men.” Harry doesn’t know what to say. A soft breeze picks up, blowing through the unruly curls sticking out from his bandana – the one that Louis loved. “It’s heartbreaking if you ask me.”

*

The next day is Sunday. The sky is a dark grey, the clouds are low, breaking down on the country in a flood that was nothing short of biblical. Harry wakes up to the sound of the rain, feeling a little dizzy and out of it. He barely opens one eye and reaches for his phone on the bedside table. It’s almost noon, they’ve let him sleep in. He notices that he’s got a message, and when he finally pieces the letters of the name together, all the remaining drowsiness wears off in an instant. Louis' sent him a Facebook message.

**_you up?_ **

He starts typing a reply but stops when he realizes the message was sent to him the day before, at around 10 pm. He’d fallen asleep early in the evening.

Still, he writes something back:

**_I was asleep, sorry._**

He presses send and lets his head fall back against the pillow, scrolling up their conversation, which had stopped brutally in December of last year. He rereads their messages, and his heart races as he gets a new one.

**_come eat_ **

He shrugs the sheets off and sits up, rubbing his eyes and ruffling his hair. He doesn’t bother with the bandana, leaving it aside for now. He’d gladly stay in bed, but Louis’ message convinced him not to. Outside the window, the rain is raging. He stands to his feet, dragging himself straight to the kitchen where he finds him head deep in the pantry, taking out some food for him. Soon enough, he realizes they’re alone. “Hey. Where’s my mum?” he asks, with a rasp in his voice.

Louis turns around. “Hi. She left with mine, earlier. They took the car and went grocery shopping, I think,” he explains, placing a large box of cereal on the counter. “They took the kids with them. You can sit down if you want.” He pours a bowl and gives it to him. “We’re all alone. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Any ideas?”

“Well… There’s this new show on Netflix. Everyone’s talking about it. Want to watch it?”

“With you?”

“Sure. If you want.”

“Okay.”

He eats his breakfast quietly while Louis finishes washing the dishes from breakfast. Outside the window, all that lush greenery is simply thriving with the rain. Harry doesn’t think there can be any other place on Earth as peaceful as here. He’s even grossed out at the thought of having to go back to Bordeaux in less than a week.

Once he's finished, he brings his empty bowl to the sink, where Louis is waiting for him. Louis dries his hands off and approaches warily. “Your hair’s funny,” he says. “It’s really long, actually.” He reaches his hand out, a little hesitant at first, and then gently places a strand of his hair behind his ear with a remarkable tenderness Harry wasn’t yet accustomed to. And Harry just lets him do as he pleases, remains perfectly still. He lets him glide his knuckles softly against his cheek, just barely touching his skin as if to make sure it was still as soft as it was last summer. Alone, his thumb continues its way down to his bottom lip, caressing it, touching it like it’s the first time. And in a way, it is.

They don’t kiss. Louis steps back and turns the tap on to wash the bowl. Harry leans back against the counter and stares at him, eyebrows furrowed in a childish, sulky expression. His mind is running a mile a minute and there are several thousands of questions he’d like to ask.

They go to Louis’ room and sit on his bed with his laptop. At first, Harry keeps his distance; Louis isn’t touching him, and he isn’t encouraging him to do anything either. Then eventually, Harry just naturally gravitates closer by the end of the second episode, resting his head against his bony shoulder.

The sound of the rain is even louder than his laptop speaker. Louis wraps an arm around his back, his hand just barely touching his bare arm, fingers softly and unconsciously grazing the skin that’s soon covered in goosebumps. At that instant, Harry feels so at peace he ends up falling asleep, at least for a few minutes. A loud noise from the speaker wakes him up with a start and he can feel Louis laughing at him.

“You sleep an awful lot. Why is that?”

Harry doesn’t really know what to say. He’s just tired all the damned time; he wishes he knew what was wrong with himself. He looks up at Louis who’s already looking at him. Louis expects an answer; Harry gives him a kiss, leaning in, scarcely touching his lips with his own, and returning to his initial position. It was an assured decision, silently conveying a very clear message: they were picking up where they left off last time.

They keep on watching the show. Their mothers come home after a while and, in a synchronized manner, they pull apart and place the laptop in between. Jay knocks at the door and peeks in, delighted by this sight. When she leaves, Harry falls back into Louis’ arms, in his rightful place. In between the episodes, they pause and take a moment to talk about what they’ve just seen, they make bets and guesses and far-fetched theories, and Louis strokes his hair and watches his lips as Harry tries to convince him that the main character’s brother might just be the murderer.

Harry goes to bed immediately after dinner that day. It's becoming a noticeable pattern and Jay hasn’t failed to catch on. That night she expresses her concerns to Anne, who brushes off the whole thing dismissively – it’s just a little slump, she says, it’s always like this in the summer, he always feels a little disconnected and lost without school’s strict routine.

If Jay doubts her words, she makes sure to keep it to herself.

In his bed, Harry’s on his phone on some random blog he found, scrolling through different theories about the show. He’s been so into it and they haven’t even finished watching the first season.

It’s almost midnight when he’s startled by a new message from Louis.

_**you asleep?** _

He feels his heart pounding in his chest.

**_Not yet_ **

****

**_can i come to your room?_ **

**_Why?_ **

**_can i??_ **

**_Come on then_ **

He sets his phone on the bedside table and sits up, turning the lamp on. Louis walks in a few seconds later. He’s dressed in his old grey jogger pants and a plain t-shirt, and he doesn’t look the least bit tired. He pulls the door shut behind himself and just stands there for a beat. “Can I sleep next to you?”

Harry takes a few seconds to ponder the matter. As much as Louis seems to have practically redeemed himself by just being fairly decent to him so far, he doesn't know whether he can fully trust him. It doesn’t take him long to come to a decision. As a matter of fact, he’s already given it some thought, and with a little hindsight, he thinks he’s starting to understand where he’s coming from. So he scoots over on the side of the bed to make room for him, and Louis settles in quietly, slipping under the sheets. “Turn the light off.”

Harry complies. They’re sharing a single pillow; Harry’s laying on his stomach, his head facing him, and Louis’ on his side. They’re too close for comfort but they don’t seem to care – Louis can almost feel Harry’s breath softly fanning against his face. “What were you doing before I came here?” Louis whispers.

“I was reading theories about the show.”

“Didn’t you want to sleep?”

“I did. I was going to turn it off before you texted me.”

“Tell me, then. What’d you read?”

Harry quickly goes over the main points he managed to remember, and Louis just listens attentively, trying to get him to engage with him by asking questions. Harry doesn’t know exactly what he’s getting at. After a while, a silence settles in. Harry shatters it in the most brutal way possible. Over time, Louis would find out it was an awful, infamous habit of his.

“Why did you hate me?”

Louis stops breathing like he’s been punched in the stomach. Harry can almost hear how upset he is when he answers. “I didn’t hate you,” he says, low and assured. “I never hated you.” And as his eyes slowly become accustomed to the darkness of the room, he can make out a few more details on Harry’s face. It’s half squished in the pillow and he’s just staring intently, waiting for an explanation. All Louis wants is to reach out his hand and touch his cheek, but he doesn’t dare. Outside the window, there seems to be a choir of a dozen crickets chirruping at the same time. “And you know this,” he adds, after a beat of silence. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know. You’re not stupid.”

Harry’s features soften – of course he knows, it's clear he was just waiting for that confirmation. He shifts a little closer and Louis takes it as an invitation. He caves in, and his hand finds his face again, cupping his cheek so warily you would think he's made of fine glass. “Why are you so afraid?” Harry asks so softly in comes out as barely a whisper.

With the tip of his finger, Louis retraces his bottom lip, feeling its texture, longing for its taste, and thirsty for its sweetness. Harry places a light kiss at the top of his finger. “Who says I’m afraid?”

“It shows,” he simply says. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” Louis confesses after a few seconds. “I suppose I’m just not used to that kind of thing.”

“That kind of thing.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Is that what scares you?”

Louis doesn’t answer, and Harry’s convinced he’s right. Now he wants to tell him that’s a silly thing to be scared of because no one on this entire planet could cause more harm to him than he did to his own self. Anything Louis could possibly do to him was only as small and insignificant as a light breeze in the month of May, compared to what he’d been doing to himself on a daily basis. He doesn’t tell him that, though he knows they just broke a barrier that night, that they can't possibly go back to how they were before. He doesn’t mind at all.

Louis gently runs his fingers through his hair, over and over, and Harry closes his eyes under the softness of his touch. “Aren’t you freaked out?”

“I’m too old to freak out,” Harry says.

Louis chuckles softly and sees his lips stretching into a cheeky little grin. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I’m fifteen. I’m not a little kid.”

“I know. You’ve made that very clear.”

“… I want to be just like you.”

“But you’re like you. That’s good too.” And with that, Louis presses a gentle kiss to his forehead. Harry’s too tired to argue against it. He flips over and Louis presses his chest against his back. As they cuddle beneath the cool sheets in the dwindling hours of the night, Harry realizes he’s hugging him just like Charlie does, sometimes. He didn’t even have to ask. Outside, all is quiet save for the gentle patter of the rain on the windows, the great downpour having lost much of its ferocity.

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s all alone in bed. It’s Monday, and Louis’ working again, until at least 7 pm. The rain has stopped, and outside the smell of wet earth drowns all the others, slithering in through a gap in the window, a trickle of unexpected freshness.

Emboldened and invigorated by last night’s events, he decides he wants to make an effort. So, he leaves the room and gets ready, offers occasional smiles, pitches in with any housework that needs doing, forces himself to answer with sentences that are longer than two or three words, and plays with the little ones, too. Anne passively watches the whole thing unfurl before her, well aware that this isn't his normal state. But if a miracle has happened last night she isn't going to complain.

*

Later in his life, Harry decides that it was this particular moment that changed him entirely. This moment, at the dining room table around tea time, when Jay pulls a large glass bottle out of the fridge and sets it right next to an arrangement of madeleines. While placing some glasses on the table, she tells them about this dairy farm everybody knew of, some twenty minutes from Poligny. “That’s where the _fruitières_ get their milk from and turn it into Comté cheese. The best in the world. We get two bottles from them every week.”

Harry crosses his arms on the table, idly staring at the bottle. When he’s offered a glass, he simply shakes his head. “I don’t really drink milk. But I’d like to get more of that, please,” he says as he points to a pitcher of pink lemonade on the corner of the table. Jay doesn’t press and pours him a glass of what he wants. Everyone tastes the milk, including the little twins who end up sporting a little milk mustache after they’ve finished drinking. He learns that the cows were raised with no GMO, that they grazed as they pleased, fresh grass when the season allows, or hay in the colder months. Somehow the little clarification soothes him, but for now, he sticks with the lemonade.

As usual, Louis gets back at seven. Harry’s in the living room reading a book to the twins who love the funny voices he gives to each character. He has just enough time to see Louis sprint past the living room on his way to take a shower. The twins bring him back to reality when he pauses unconsciously.

After a few minutes, Louis comes out. He didn’t bother to put a shirt on, strutting around in black Nike shorts, barefoot and his hair all messy and wet. Harry takes a moment to compose himself and finishes the story before joining him in the kitchen.

“Have we got any milk left?” Louis asks while opening the fridge.

Jay is sitting at the table in front of her laptop with her hair tied up and a pair of glasses on her nose. She’s working and doesn’t even look up when she replies, “ _Oui._ There’s a full bottle in the back.”

“Can I have some?”

“Sure. Don’t drink too much though, we’re having diner soon.”

Harry’s leaning against the kitchen wall and watches him open the bottle, pouring himself a generous amount in a tall glass and then storing the bottle away. Louis passes him briskly; his eyes are twinkling and his skin has regained some of its colors since he’d started working outside in the sun. “Come on,” he whispers to him and points to his own room with a brief nod. Over there, Louis sets the glass on his bedside table. He opens the green shutters wide and the sun invites itself in, eagerly splashing across the room. Outside, birds and cicadas are teaming up to offer them their finest masterpiece.

Harry toes his shoes off and climbs on the bed. He’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of the soft mattress. Louis does the same, settling right in front of him. “What’d you do today?”

“Not much. I played outside with the kids and then we spent the entire afternoon watching cartoons, and then they had enough so we switched to books instead. I get bored when you’re not around.”

“I could take a few days off if you want. I’m not under contract or anything, it’s just pocket money.”

“I’d feel bad. You don’t need to do that.”

Louis just shifts closer, wrapping one of Harry’s curls around his finger. It makes both of them smile. The sun’s hitting Louis right in the face, and Harry notices three tiny little beauty marks on his left cheek as he takes a sip of his milk. “Have you tried it?”

“Your mum’s offered but I said no.”

“Why?” he asks, bringing the glass back to his lips and tilting it back.

“I don’t… I don’t really drink milk.”

“Is it because of that video you shared on Facebook?”

“Did you stalk me?”

“Look. Our cows are as happy as they come, they treat them like royalty. You should see them. They run around and lounge and everything, it’s lovely. They’ve even got little bells around their necks.”

A soft chuckle escapes Harry's lips as Louis lies down, pulling him by his arm and dragging him down with him. He holds one of his hands between his own, entangling their fingers together and feeling the heat from the sun on their skin. His hand is soft, he thinks, and wonders if everything about him is just as silken and delicate. He wants to find out. He approaches carefully and presses a kiss to his round cheek, and then to the tip of his nose, and to his lips. And he gets an idea. “Do you want a taste? I promise you, it’s really good.”

“… Fine.”

“Okay. Don’t move.”

Louis props himself up on his elbow and picks up the glass again. “Open your mouth… Not that big, just a little bit,” he whispers. “There you go.”

At his complete mercy, Harry complies. He lies there open-mouthed and waits. Louis takes a long sip but he doesn’t swallow. He leans toward him, getting closer and closer, until his lips are only a few millimeters from Harry’s own, and then gradually lets a fine stream of white liquid flowing out and into his mouth. Desire stirs within him, along with some confusion. Taken aback, Harry smiles a little but remains completely motionless. When in turn his mouth is full, he swallows everything without any hesitation. He sits up, his cheeks flaming red.

“How was it?” Louis whispers, swiping his thumb across Harry’s chin where a drop of milk had escaped.

“Good…”

“Want some more?”

He doesn’t need to answer, his eyes speak for him. Louis lies down, grabs the glass again and this time he pours some on his own body, starting with his sternum and then along his chest, stopping just shy of the elastic band of his shorts, careful not to drop any on the bedsheets.

At first, Harry is deeply moved by the gesture, overjoyed by the fact that Louis doesn’t see him as a little kid, the way his mum and everybody else does. It makes his heart swell and he’s so filled with excitement; he moves to straddle his lap, one knee on each side of his thighs. He leans forward and, timidly at first, runs his tongue over his skin to collect the trail of milk. Immediately, he’s taken back to last summer; how he had craved and dreamed of the taste of his skin. He recalls the salt and the seawater and the sun and realizes that this, right now, is a thousand times better. He starts from below, tenderly working his way up to his collarbones. Louis’ hand finds its way to the back of Harry’s neck, fingers running and entangling themselves through his hair, keeping him close, his blood buzzing with desire and heat.

Harry licks him completely clean. When he finishes, there’s not a single drop of white on his chest; his skin shiny and glistening with saliva. Harry lingers near his neck, licking, kissing and biting. Against his tongue, if he stays _very still_ , he can feel his pulse – and right now, judging by its fervor, his heart is just short of taking off.

Quickly enough though, Louis reverses their positions so he’s on top and finally kisses him. Kissing Harry is like setting the world on fire. His lips are the lightest, sweetest, purest thing Louis has ever tasted. He moves his mouth timidly at first, as though he’s forgotten what it was like to be this close to someone. There's something so exquisite about kissing him. Harry’s kisses are so blundering and imperfect, like he’s made out with a few people before but only so he could say he’d done it and never long enough for it to have taught him anything. Louis feels an instant surge of tenderness for him and wishes he could stick around and show him everything he already knew.

They kiss for what seems like hours before Louis finally breaks them apart and starts pulling Harry’s shirt off. Harry raises his arms to make his task easier, momentarily forgetting that he hates himself more than anything because Louis doesn’t waste a second, storming back with his lips. First, he goes for his left arm, starting from the inside of his elbow up to his shoulder, dragging his lips across his skin and planting little kisses everywhere; he places a single one on his armpit before resuming his path. For a moment, his lips linger on one of his nipples. As he continues, Harry thinks he’s probably covered every square inch of his chest with his kisses, and he doesn’t understand why. Louis answers out loud as if he’d heard his question, “So lovely… You’re beautiful.”

And then, what he’d dreaded the most; he wants to cry. Harry’s holding back tears and clenching his teeth; now his vision’s all blurry and his eyes are wet but he wipes everything off with the back of his hand. He doesn’t want to ruin it so he keeps telling himself to get a bloody grip. He doesn’t even know exactly why he’s in tears. Louis’ words sounded so wrong to him.

When Louis’ hand starts feeling him over his shorts and when he says, all astounded, “You’re so _fucking_ hard…”, the tears come back. Louis notices, and then it’s over. He moves away from him, sitting back up at once, his eyes filled with overwhelming concern. “Don’t cry,” he coos. “why are you crying? You want to stop? What’s the matter, why are you crying?”

“Please, don’t stop,” he whimpers, wiping new tears away as they came with the heel of his hands, pressing them deep into his eyes. He hates himself more than anything.

“We’re stopping,” he insists and crawls back up to him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

They’re lying on their side, facing each other, and Harry’s trying very hard to hide his quivering lips. Louis strokes his cheek, and then his hair, nice and slow. He keeps doing this until he seems to have simmered down. Louis wipes the tears that have run down his cheeks and searches for his eyes, who’ve been avoiding him for a few minutes now. “Talk to me.”

“Do you want me, still?” Harry asks shakily– and he hates himself, he hates how pathetic he sounds, he hates how weak he is, and he feels like a little kid again.

“Of course, I do…” he vows like his question was as absurd as they came. “Harry… If I’ve done something wrong you need to tell me.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. It was great… _You’re_ great,” he insists faintly as a jolt runs through his body.

Louis rolls over onto his back, resting his arm against his forehead and letting out a long sigh.

Harry knows he’s ruined everything. He knows he can't possibly deserve all that attention, all that sweetness, all that passion, he isn’t allowed to taste it. He thinks back to those words he once read, the ones that say you can’t be loved if you don’t love yourself. He hates to admit it but whoever that person was they were right and by far. At this rate, he would never be grown-up like Louis is. Would a grown-up have broken into tears as he did? Would a grown-up have shattered such a special moment the way he did? _No way_.

There’s also no way he’s going to tell Louis any of this. It's ridiculous enough as it is. So, he doesn’t. And Louis doesn’t press either. What he does do is slip into his bed the next couple of nights, holding him close and not saying a word. He’ll hold his hand, play with his fingers, counting and recounting them. Louis refrains from complimenting him out loud, but when he watches him get dressed or tie his bandana in his hair, his eyes are a dead giveaway.

It’s a bright, sunny day and they’re hanging out in the backyard. Perhaps in a futile attempt to regain Harry’s trust, which he believes he has lost, Louis decides to open up about what had happened at his old school. The story is far from being uncommon. It’s been seen over and over again. A take on a classic, tragic scenario whose multiple occurrences only differ by their protagonists.

He and a boy liked each other – as soon as he says that, Harry already knows how this is going to end, and so he braces himself for the rest. They’d been beating around the bush for months, never daring to go beyond flirtatious remarks and subtle touches. And then one day, Louis had kissed him in the locker room. Someone had seen them and tipped them off to the entire class. Around lunchtime, a group of boys gathered together to beat the living daylights out of them. Louis had been left with two broken ribs and a completely disfigured, bloody face. He’d considered never going back home, his mind an endless ramble of _what was his mum going to think? He would have to tell her the truth and he wasn’t ready to tell her about this part of him, maybe she would hate him and he couldn’t bear it, and what was she going to do about the boys who’d beaten him up? Surely she’d want them punished and things were going to get a lot worse for him and he probably wouldn’t make it out alive._

He’d gone home, after all, that day – he hadn’t much of a choice, with so few friends he could count on and a vicious, loose-lipped neighborhood, he didn’t stand a chance. On the way home, and with each heavy step that he took, he prayed to be smitten to dust by a lightning bolt before he reached the house. He didn’t even know who he was praying to. The sky that day had been a plain, bright blue color.

And then it was just hell; _What happened? Who did this to you? Talk to me, I want names, and I want them now_. He’d kept quiet. She’d driven him to the nearest hospital, and in the waiting room, she’d pressed again. _What happened?_ She’d asked, and to this day he’d never seen her so furious and upset. His face was bloody all over, it was very obvious what happened. So, instead, she asked, _why_ did it happen? And then he’d muttered something under his breath, through gritted teeth, not daring to look her in the eye, he’d said _I kissed a boy_. He couldn’t tell how she’d reacted to that because he’d never looked at her, he’d kept staring at the same white tile on the floor until his name was called. _I want names_ , she’d simply said, again, _and you’re going to give me names, because the school’s not going to lift a finger. You need to tell me._

And despite the paralyzing shame he felt, he’d told her the names. The next day she tracked all of them down — it wasn’t hard to find somebody in such a tight-knit community. She’d showed up on their porch and given them and their parents a heavy piece of her mind, to say the least, hadn’t left until she was physically kicked out of each of their homes. Louis had changed schools and was now attending a high school somewhere near Arbois – it takes him about an hour just to get there but he’d take this over returning to his old school anytime. From then on, he’d promised himself never to let his guard down again and he’d tried his hardest to stifle that revolting part of himself. Of course, he hadn’t succeeded. Harry had come and turned everything upside down. The rest was history.

“Where’s that boy, now?” Harry asks when he believes that Louis has finished telling his story.

Louis' fingers thread softly through the thick blades of grass, pulling some of them out. “He’s left town, it was years ago. It’s probably for the better. I love my mum and all, but fuck, I can’t wait to get out of here.”

Upon hearing his confession, Harry’s starting to put the pieces together. It’s all making sense now. That afternoon, they’re both lying side by side on the fresh-cut grass. They think no one can see them and rightly so; they’re all alone in the backyard. The only witness is the ever-lasting sun, high above, beating down on them. Harry reaches for Louis’ hand that was resting between them, entangles their fingers, and carries it up to his lips to dust a kiss over his skin. “I’m sorry.”

Louis gives a chuckle, “What for?” He turns his head toward him, genuinely curious. He squints an eye as a row of grass blades tickles his cheek.

“Don’t know. I’m sorry people are stupid.”

“It’s not going to change anytime soon. Like I said… it’s a small town. You lot did well to move away when you did. Suppose people in big cities aren’t as stuck-up. I know Paris will be good for me.”

A silence falls and stands between them. There’s a loud, distant chirrup somewhere in the tall grass, where cicadas liked to hide. Harry’s staring at him thoughtfully, but Louis’ only looking up at the sky. Right where his Adam’s apple is protruding, there’s a slight movement, like he’s swallowing something.

“Can I kiss you?” Harry asks hesitantly.

“Come here, then.”

Harry props himself up on his elbow, digging into the earth, and leans in for a kiss, capturing his lips between his. It tastes of hope, something new, and a hint of hazelnut.

From the kitchen window, Johannah watches them quietly. She’s spotted them less than a minute ago and overcome with curiosity, she’d stayed to look. For the first time ever, she was witnessing what was going on behind the scenes, when they thought they were alone. She doesn’t bother them, though, and just settles for finishing the glass of milk she was holding. When she’s seen enough, she draws the white lace curtains and swiftly exits the kitchen.

*

On the morning of his last day in Poligny, Harry wakes up in Louis’ bed. Louis had taken the day off, to nobody’s surprise. Harry’s phone has been vibrating sporadically for the last minute. He sighs loudly, barely awake, and reaches for the bedside table to retrieve it. Louis stirs awake, alerted by the noise. He glides closer, lazily wrapping his arm around his midsection, nestling his chin against Harry’s bare shoulder to peek at the screen through scarcely open, tired eyes. He’s talking to someone named “Charlie”, with a red heart next to the name. “Who’s she?” he mumbles, his voice still raspy, and presses a kiss upon his warm, naked back.

“Charlie’s a boy,” Harry answers, rubbing his eyes and reading the three messages

**From: Charlie** **❤️**

_Morning handsome_

_You coming home today or what_

_Also how’s that dickhead treating you? Haven’t heard from you in days im getting worried_

Louis reads them too. “Is that your boyfriend, then?”

“No,” he breathes. “He’s my best friend.” He puts his phone down and wishes he hadn’t picked it up.

“Best friend with a red heart,” Louis mumbles against his skin.

“Yes.”

“You don’t put a red heart for your best friend. That’s basic…texting etiquette.”

“Yeah, well I’m not all that knowledgeable in… whatever you just called it. I hardly use my phone.”

“What’d you tell him about me?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just said you were a dick last summer. It’s true. Haven’t talked to him since I came here, though, so…”

“I mean, you’re not wrong.”

They remain silent for a while, just reflecting on everything. With his thumb, Louis’ softly stroking Harry’s naked arm. “Give me your number,” Louis says.

Harry scrolls down his contact list, finds his own name and shows him the number. Quickly enough, Louis adds him and sends him a message that says: _hi this is a test_.

Harry laughs softly and turns around to face him. Louis’ face is streaked with pillow marks and his eyes are still a little puffy with sleep.

“I’ll put a blue heart next to your name,” Harry says. “Would you like that?”

“I’m just happy you’re considering putting a heart at all.”

Harry cuddles up to him, nuzzling his head against his chest as Louis keeps on running his fingers up and down his back. “Will you call me?” Harry whispers, suddenly hit by the fact that he’s leaving today.

“I will,” he assures him, dipping his nose into the mass of curls, reveling in the fresh smell of his shampoo. It’s weirdly sweet.

“You’ll talk to me?”

“Yes. I promise.”

And so, Harry drops his guard and allows himself to believe him. All loved up on him as he was, it was hard not to. “I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Don't say that, Harry.”

“Why not?”

“You deserve better than me.”

Harry looks up at him, and the last confession he makes comes from the depths of his entire being, he says to him, his words laced with gold and silk and everything sweet, “You’re the only one I want.”

*

Jay has kept it all to herself. She hasn’t made a single comment, hasn’t acted any differently. She’s given them their much-needed privacy, knowing that it was hard enough to manage together as it was, without other people getting involved.

However, now that she knows, it's hard not to pay attention. She can't help but notice how they act around each other, how they would steal little glances over the dinner table or how Harry seems to be spending an awful lot of time in Louis’ room. She knows he spent most of his nights in Louis’ room, as she would pass by Félicité’s in the early morning and the door was left ajar, revealing an empty bed, devoid of any crinkles or signs of life.

She’ll just look at them thoughtfully, and quickly avert her eyes before they spot her. She’s told Anne about it, and by doing so she’s only meant to inform her, and she's even instructed her not to intervene, told her that unless one of the boys spoke first, it was best to leave them be.

But that didn’t sit well with Anne.

It’s a few hours before they leave. In the room she has occupied, Anne is folding some of her clothes and placing them neatly in her suitcase. There is a knock at the door, and after a few seconds, Louis steps in, holding a pile of clean sheets. He just gives her the faintest smile and heads toward a large wardrobe to store them in. Anne shoots a disdainful look at him over her shoulder. She drops the lid on her suitcase and zips it up before turning to him. “Aren’t you ashamed?” she asks, in a low, looming voice.

Louis frowns in confusion, shutting the wardrobe door. “What?”

She stares at him, not making any effort to hide her revulsion. “He’s so young… He’s just a kid, can’t you see? He’s completely clueless, why would you put those kinds of ideas into his head… He’s messed up enough as it is.”

It’s obvious what she’s referring to, and his confusion quickly turns into anger. “He’s not a little kid. And he’s not messed up.”

“Stay away from him,” she whispers, resolutely. “You’re a big boy, Louis, you know better. It’s not right, what you’re doing.”

She doesn’t let him answer, lowering her suitcase to the ground and promptly leaving the room without sparing a look for him. Louis just stands there dumbstruck. Her words gnaw their way under his skin, and even if he tries hard to rationalize it, he's plagued with the horrible thought that she might be right. He hates himself more than anything right now. So, he locks himself in his room until it’s time to say goodbye. And in no time, he turns into a reflection of who he was a year ago.

In front of their mothers, he settles for a cold, quick kiss on Harry’s cheek and leaves swiftly.

Harry finds it odd but he doesn’t dwell on it. He refrains from sending him any message during the train ride back to Bordeaux. But as soon as he steps out and into the platform, he gives in and sends him “Hey” on the Messenger app. An automated message informs him that his “Hey” didn’t go through because Louis supposedly blocked him. He doesn’t believe it for a second. He browses his contact list, quickly finds his name, and calls him.

The call doesn’t go through.


	3. The Last Summer

When Harry finally came to the frankly liberating decision that he was going to end his own life, about a month before his twentieth birthday, he hadn’t expected to survive, much less to make things worse for himself. It happened after the dreadful news of Charlie’s death reached his door; what had come out of that police officer’s mouth was an incoherent string of slurred, garbled words he hadn’t been able to process at the moment. It took him a while, and then it dawned on him, reality crashing down on his head like a leaden shroud.

The motorcycle accident at the corner of Saint-Dominique street had been described, by doctors and passers-by alike, as nothing less than a butchery. Charlie had died instantly on December 14th.

On the 20th, Harry took a train from Paris to Bordeaux to visit his parents for the holidays.

On January 2nd, he swallowed the contents of an entire bottle of painkillers in the upstairs bathroom, the one with the blue tiles – that day he noticed just how cold they were – while his mum had gone grocery shopping. When she came back, she found the bathroom door half ajar and would’ve likely walked right past it if it wasn’t for the pale, still hand on the floor, peeking out from behind the door. And there she found him, collapsed on the ground face down, pale as death.

He was saved at the hospital just under the wire – a few more minutes and he wouldn’t have made it, they told his mother.

Few things lived up to the existential dread and pure, blazing fury he felt when he woke up and realized he’d failed. He remembers how cold the hospital room was, and how the bright neon lights had burned his eyes. To this day he’s still convinced that if he had been alone when he’d woken up, he would’ve tried again. He was kept under surveillance for a few days and forced to undergo a battery of tests, each one worse than the last. When the diagnosis fell it came as no surprise to him that he was clinically depressed, that it was apparently severe, and that it had been left untreated for years. He was prescribed a colorful range of antidepressants, he was given the address of some renowned therapist somewhere in the outskirts of Paris, and he was sent back home with nothing more than a pat on the back.

*

Harry and Charlie had been roommates ever since he moved to Paris after high school, where he studied art history at l’École du Louvre. They lived in the 15th district – or just the 15th, as the locals said, and needless to say that it was tiny, cramped up, with scarcely enough room to move around for one person, let alone two; but it seemed to be a way of life that most students had become accustomed to. It came as a package deal—you get to live in the middle of all the hustle and bustle, a whirlwind of a city that came with all the opportunities available to those the State thought they were fit to benefit from, but unless you’re stinking rich, _forget about space._

Charlie used to work in finance. At least, that was what he’d told him, and Harry hadn’t really bothered to investigate that claim. Besides, whenever he attempted to pry, Charlie would dismiss him with a “ _Don’t worry about it. I got you. I got us.”_

He did find it a little odd, that Charlie always carried an insane amount of cash on his person at all times. He had his own ideas about what could be going on behind closed doors, but he didn’t want to get in trouble, and Charlie looked like he had everything under control, so as long as the rent was paid and they had food on the table, he could turn a blind eye to it. And besides, Harry had his own livelihood to worry about. He was working part-time at the Louvre, the world’s busiest, most famous museum, chock-full of obnoxious tourists from all around the globe.

Living together with his best friend for a small pair of years had sent him on a self-reflective journey he hadn’t even come back from. He had enjoyed a tiny respite from the life he used to lead at home. He had built himself a nice little routine, which he didn’t even hate that much up until Charlie went and got himself killed on the street, _on a Tuesday afternoon_ , for no other reason than his incorrigible recklessness.

What happened that day completely shattered him. Charlie hadn’t only been his best friend for years; he also knew how to take care of him like no one ever did. He was there for him whenever he needed someone to lean on or talk to. It was like he’d been _trained_ to deal with Harry. He also knew when to step back and give him space and time alone. Once in a while, he’d disappear for a night or two with little more than a heads-up. And with no warning, he’d show up again in the morning, he’d sneak up on him in the kitchen, hug him from behind, place a kiss on his cheek and stroke his arm with a softly whispered, _“I’m back.”_

Harry never questioned him. Charlie had always been a very sexually ambiguous man and he’d practically spent all of his teenage years sending him mixed signals, which Harry never bothered to learn how to read. He knew one thing for sure: he never saw Charlie as more than a friend. They would sleep in the same bed, once in a while (even though Charlie had his designated place on the sofa bed), but had yet to cross any established boundaries.

No matter what, Charlie always came back to him. Until the day he didn’t.

Charlie had been the only figure of stability he’d had in the past few years. When he disappeared, all that Harry could logically do was fall apart.

He bitterly regrets what he did on January 2nd. He hadn’t thought things through, he was hurting so bad all he wanted to do was put an end to it. And now, other people got involved. Other people, like his mother. She had sworn to herself that she would never leave his side again. She’d moved to Paris with him when the second semester began. She moved into his apartment, the only place where he could feel remotely at peace, the only place he finally felt free and not so little anymore, and she’d turned a completely deaf ear to his objections.

It’s July. And despite Charlie’s absence, the apartment looks smaller than usual. Its already narrow walls seem to be closing in on him like hands around his neck every time he walks through the door. Over the months he had learned to put up with his mother’s cumbersome presence – she’d watch his every move, cautiously following him around, ready to pounce just in case he felt like throwing himself off the balcony. Harry knew he had everything to do with the perpetual state of anguish she found herself in. He knew she never got any sleep because of him. He’s aware, deep down, that the day he had tried to end his life, he’d ended hers.

*

It's nighttime. And it _smells like_ nighttime. A fresh, spicy scent, mixed with the smell of cigarettes and smoke coming out from a row of cars a few meters under the balcony— a constant flow of headlights and sounds. Harry’s vision has been deteriorating over the years; the lights are all blurry, surrounded by a hazy halo as if he was looking at them through a light fog or a rain-soaked window.

He’s leaning on the railing, cold, callous floor underneath his naked feet, casually holding a small bottle of Heineken by the neck, ready to drop it on the sidewalk at any time. Behind him are two little garden chairs facing each other. He hardly sits on them anymore. When Charlie was still here, they would spend hours on the little balcony, just the two of them, sitting there, laughing and talking out of their minds, early in the morning or late at night. There’s a tiny crate full of green glass bottles by his feet. He doesn’t even know if they’re empty.

Behind him, through the half-opened door, he can vaguely make out two voices arguing. Gemma is in town; she rented a place across the street for a few days. She came to visit him, as they haven’t seen each other since January.

The wind picks up, blowing on his face and on the small strands of hair that had escaped from his disheveled bun. He has made a habit out of tying it up ever since his hair has started to reach his shoulders.

He listens in, dangling the bottle over the railing.

“Look, I get it,” Gemma says. “You worry about him, and for good reason, don’t get me wrong. But that’s no way to live for a twenty-year-old. You’re smothering him, maman, _tu l’étouffes_.”

“You don’t know how I feel. You’ll never know how I feel and I wish you _never find out_ what it’s like… You didn’t give birth to him, you didn’t raise him, you don’t-”

“I’ve spent most of my life with him! He’s my brother!” Gemma raises her voice, and it wavers a little. “I love him just as much as you do. And I was hurting, that day, just as much as you were. You’re not the only one who’s suffering. It’s tiny, in here! It’s so, so small and so cramped. You’re suffocating him,” she repeats. “You think you can fix this by staying here but you can’t! You’re sleeping on his couch, you don’t have a job anymore, Robin’s been home alone since January… Is that how you want to live? Are you seriously never going to get off his back?”

“If I have to.”

Upon hearing the deep, frustrated noise his sister let out, he turns his head and tries to peek inside. Gemma’s quickly gathering her things, putting her jacket on, and grabbing her purse under Anne’s bitter, resentful gaze, standing helpless in the middle of the kitchen. Harry turns back around, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and takes a long sip of his beer. He opens Grindr, scrolling down the grid displaying all the guys nearby. His thumb hovers over a picture that instantly catches his eye. Théodore, a 19-year-old fake blonde with rock-hard abs, just less than a mile away, maybe even down his own street. He quickly skims through his info, then hopelessly closes the app, pocketing his phone. It’s not like he could just go out or have anyone over, for obvious reasons.

That doesn't mean he never gets any action. He has his ways; he would chat some bloke up on the app once in a while, whenever he feels lonely or just exceedingly horny, they would agree to meet for a shag – and those _have_ to be scheduled during school hours. For that reason, he ends up skipping class on an almost weekly basis. His mum knows his schedule like the back of her hand, and it isn't news that she essentially monitors his location when he's out and about. She knows when he is supposed to be home to the nearest minute. If god forbid, he’s ever late, all hell breaks loose. The slightest deviation from his habits _must_ mean that Harry’s preparing another ‘January-2nd’.

When putting things into perspective, his situation today isn’t as bad as it used to be. Anne didn’t use to get any sleep (she still doesn’t, to a certain extent), and she’d walk into his room at night while he slept, every two hours, just to make sure he was still breathing. She’d stopped doing that of her own free will after a few weeks.

Gemma opens the door to the balcony and steps outside, still obviously seething. “Come on, you. You need to eat. Give me that,” she snatches the bottle from his hands. “Go on.” She leads him inside and makes him sit at the little square table in the kitchen, the one that’s stuck against the wall. Sometimes it feels as though their only purpose is to keep him alive for one more day. Gemma serves him a steaming bowl of red lentil soup. She makes sure he’s got a spoon and something to drink, “You’ve got everything you need?” she asks in a low voice, and he nods. “I’m going back home,” she tells Anne. “And one more thing. Don’t act all surprised if he pulls the same shit again. If I were him, I would’ve done the same.”

She leaves those words of inconceivable violence hanging in the air as she storms out of the apartment. The silence falls back like a cloud of ashes after a volcanic explosion. Harry starts eating, his spoon gently clunking against the sides of his bowl as he cautiously sips on the scorching liquid.

“It tastes good, Maman.” Anne doesn’t reply. She heads to the sink and turns on the tap to start washing the dishes. “You know,” he says, guardedly, “it won’t happen again. I told you, I was just… I was just sad because-”

“Harry. Enough.”

He shuts down and finishes his meal in silence. Out the corner of his eye, he spots the little crate of beer, somewhere in the balcony. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go on,” she says distractedly while rinsing a glass.

“There’s a music festival this weekend, at the Hippodrome. Lollapalooza. This band I like will be there… I’d like to go.”

Anne keeps quiet and takes the time to finish the dishes, not even sparing a look for him. He almost gives up, but then, against all odds, she says, “All right.”

“… Really?”

“ _Oui._ As long as Juliette comes along, you may go.”

“ _Maman_ ,” he sighs. “The tickets cost an arm… a friend of mine sold them to me for 50 euros because he won’t be able to make it.”

“That’s fine,” she says. “I’ll buy the tickets for her. How much is it?”

“150, for two days… Please, don’t call her.”

“Do you want to go, yes or no?” she turns to him, mildly annoyed – he knows not to play with her patience. He could end up not going at all.

“… Yes.”

“All right, then.” She shrugs and pulls out her cell phone to call Juliette, Harry’s ex-girlfriend, who he’s stayed on relatively good terms with. They’d met in class, dated for a month, and Anne had taken a quick liking to the girl. She trusts her, and Juliette sympathizes with their situation. She understands Anne’s troubles, and so she’s essentially turned the young girl into her own personal spy. While she’s on the phone with her, she puts on this bright, cheery voice that Harry knows is fake. He buries his face in his hands and tunes her out. Anne comes back a few minutes later. “Good news! She said yes. But she didn’t let me pay… bless her soul.”

“Why would you do this?”

“What?” she asks, innocently.

“Maybe she’s busy this weekend, she might’ve had plans and she couldn’t say no ‘cause you put her on the spot like that!”

“Oh, should I cancel?” she says, falsely grieved. Harry falls quiet. “That’s what I thought.”

He storms out of the kitchen and heads for his room.

“Don’t close the door,” she calls out.

“I know.”

Harry drops on his bed with a long, frustrated sigh. On his brick wall is a string of fairy lights twinkling, giving a soft glow to the tiny room. On a shelf above his bed is a small houseplant he had bought and taken care of with Charlie. It’s been dead for months – a dry, crumpled leaf detaches itself and drops on his pillow, right by his head. From his open window, he hears the city calling out to him. It’s still very much alive; its noises dye the silence of his room like a peaceful melody.

He takes his phone and starts typing a new message.

**To: Juliette**

_Hey, my mums a pain, I'm sorry she called you. I wanted to go by myself._

He waits a little while, then sends another one.

**To: Juliette**

_If you’re busy that day just let me know & I’ll find a way. We can lie to her she won’t notice…_

He gets an answer after a few seconds.

**From: Juliette**

_i'm not gonna lie to your mum harry. it’s for your own good_

He huffs loudly and opens his bank app to transfer 150 euros to her. She reacts almost instantly.

**From: Juliette**

_take it back I don’t need it!!_

**To: Juliette**

_Keep it, I feel awful_

**From: Juliette**

_unbelievable… dinner’s on me next time. let me know when you’re free x_

He clicks the phone shut and drops the device on his chest as he lies back down with his arms spread out, eyes fixated on the ceiling lamp.

Things aren’t as bad as they used to be. At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself lately. Now, he takes his medication regularly – he _wants_ to get better. He’s learned the hard way that recovery was far from being a straight line. Some days are impossibly harder than others. On a bad one, he can’t even work up the strength to get out of bed, let alone his apartment. There are days where he dissociates so hard, he no longer reacts when his mum calls him from across the room, he even ends up forgetting his own name. Days when the emptiness he’d started to feel at the beginning of his teen years starts taking up so much space that he feels like his body is nothing more than a rotten, empty carcass. Now that he’s spending an awful lot of time online, he knows that pop culture often characterizes depression as a state of constant and endless sadness. He thinks that’s cute; he _wishes_ he could be sad. He hasn’t even felt anything in months. Nothing at all save for the occasional peak of anger, or the thrilling rush of dopamine after five minutes of mediocre sex with men whose names he can hardly remember.

Anne pulls him out of his thoughts with a soft knock on his half-open door. “I’m going to take a shower, didn’t have time this morning. I’ll be quick.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I _know_.”

He lets out a long breath of relief when she finally leaves. He picks up his phone again.

**To: Juliette**

_Can I use your facebook account please?_

**From: Juliette**

_what for_

**To: Juliette**

_Just need to check something_

**From: Juliette**

_go ahead but please make sure to log out when you’re done. don’t touch my notifications & don’t text HIM_

**To: Juliette**

_I won’t, promise_

He logs out of his account and into Juliette’s. She’s got dozens of notifications, three friend requests, and ten private messages she hasn’t touched yet. Nothing out of the ordinary; Juliette is gorgeous, and Harry’s told her multiple times that if she wished to, and if she set her mind to it, she could probably be the next French it-girl and live a life fit for a supermodel in the fashion capital. In her profile picture, she’s posing in some little quaint street in Rome with her sun-kissed skin and a white flowy dress showing off her long, thin legs. Her blonde hair reaches down to the middle of her back, and she’s wearing a pair of cat-eye sunglasses. She must’ve seen something in him that he doesn’t, he’s surprised she even spared a look for him if the unanswered messages in her inbox – some date back to a year ago – and the swarm of men of all ages who’d unabashedly lusted over her in public places are anything to go by. He knows he’d been lucky, but another thing he knows is that he could’ve never been truly happy with her. If anything, she’s been a friend more than a lover.

Now, he usually doesn’t do this very often. But he’s feeling exceedingly alone tonight. His fingers hover over the keyboard for a long time, the little cursor flashing on the search bar, waiting for him to type something. And he finally does.

_Louis Tomlinson._

A few months ago, he had added him from Juliette’s account—he asked her first, of course. And obviously, Louis had accepted.

From his own account, Harry no longer has access to Louis’ profile. He remembers it all too well. It was the day he made it clear, with a few virtual clicks, that everything they experienced together, however short it was, was merely a distraction for him, a fun little game he liked to play, something to help him escape the torpor of his life. Looking back, and through a veil of sickly pessimism, Harry can see himself at the age of fifteen, all naïve and clumsy, blindly trusting a boy who never gave a damn about him. It was Louis who made him realize that he didn’t deserve a nice little story, like the ones you see in movies. That if there was only one thing about him that’s even remotely worthy of praise and attention, it was his body, that people liked to touch, his face and his lips, that people liked to kiss and compliment, and this disturbing, profound submissiveness he couldn’t get rid of for the life of him. He thinks it might just be a side effect of having been treated as smaller than he really was for years. Deep down, he’s got his mum to blame. Also, Freud’s probably got some sick, twisted explanation for how he turned out; he’ll have to look into it.

All accusations aside, this train of thought of his ended up being disastrous. He’s developed a nasty amount of distrust toward people. He gives them what they clearly want out of him, but it stops there. As soon as someone seems to be getting too close, he shoves them back and adds another layer to the brick wall he’s built around himself. Sure, he’d given Juliette a chance; she was kind and sweet and never meant any harm, and besides, girls’ intentions were generally purer than any man’s he’s ever met. But after a month of dating and after she learned he’d tried to kill himself, she’d started acting the way his mum did and she would even take her side. That, he couldn’t stand. He’d put an end to it and claimed he just wanted to remain friends.

He’s not sure whether he does this to hurt himself, or if it’s in the wicked hope of seeing that he’s been punished, but Harry can’t help but follow Louis’ life on the social network. He’s had the same profile picture for a year now. It’s black and white, and he’s wearing a black turtleneck that’s he’s bringing up to cover his mouth, his clear eyes staring straight into the camera. His hair’s styled up, it almost looks like a professional photoshoot. Harry hates that he still finds him breathtakingly beautiful, to this day.

Louis never posts anything. He’s got 463 friends, and every year on Christmas Eve, some of them wish him a happy birthday on his wall. Today, he’s twenty-two years old. He seems happy, overall. That’s already more than Harry can say. He opens the conversation between Louis and Juliette. It’s from a few months ago; after he’d accepted the request, Louis had sent something:

_Hey beautiful, do I know you?_

Harry had never answered.

A loud noise erupts outside, almost like an explosion. It happens a couple of times in a row. Harry looks over to his window, from where he can admire a cloud of blue, red and silver fireworks.

It’s the 14th of July – the Bastille Day.

*

The day before the festival, Harry gets off work at five o’clock. He leaves the Louvre and makes his way down rue de Rivoli, where he finds Juliette waiting for him. She kisses him on the cheeks, and he’s hit with a whiff of her perfume. Before he’s even had the chance to say anything, she starts complaining about how her high heels have made her suffer all day long, suggesting they both go shopping as she needs new shoes right about _now_. There is a mall, _le forum des Halles_ , just a few minutes’ walk from the museum, but she insists they take the tube.

On the way, Harry’s sitting by the window, his temple pressed against the glass, his whole body rocked by the rhythmic jolts of the train on the rails. Juliette is right next to him, smiling down unconsciously at her phone as she reads a message before typing a short answer, her nails hitting the screen with a soft clicking sound. Harry just lets his gaze drift from one passenger to another. He always gets this strange feeling of being an outsider even in the most mundane of situations. It’s an odd impression—it’s like he doesn’t belong here. He’s only begun to feel this way ever since he’s moved to Paris, strangely enough.

There’s this woman standing up, long black hair, and dressed in a thin, flowy skirt that reaches down to her ankles, wafting with the soft wind. Her eyes look dead, as do most people’s in the city’s public transport in between rush hours. There’s this old man sitting by the door with his back straight, hands crossed over his lap, quietly studying people just like Harry is. There’s this little boy having fun around the metal pole, and there’s his mother, a fine-looking young woman who keeps a distracted eye on him from time to time, before returning to her newspaper whose first page displayed a picture of the city on a day of great smog; in the street, a child is wearing some sort of surgical mask, a particularly disturbing image, accompanied by the title “ _2025, could it be too late?”_

The train grinds to a halt and the doors open, letting in a horde of new commuters. An alarm rings, the doors close and the train shudders to a start, and then the automated voice announces the next station. _Châtelet._

In the mall, Juliette drags him over to her favorite shoe store. She buys a pair of tennis shoes that she slips on immediately after she leaves the store and shoves her heels into her bag with a sigh of relief. Then she sets off to find a new swimsuit. Harry follows her around, all docile, and spends his time running his fingers over different fabrics in the store.

“ _Oh, regarde,_ look,” she says, unhooking a lightweight, striped dress shirt from the men’s rack. “This would look good on you.”

He takes it, feeling the fabric and twisting it around. “You think so?”

“Yes. It’s your style, isn’t it? Go on, try it on. I’ll go with you.”

He goes to change in the fitting room, rolling up the sleeves and looking at himself from all possible angles in the mirror. Juliette slips into the cabin, promptly drawing the heavy curtains behind her as he unties his hair, letting it fall back into a cascade of curls over his shoulders. He runs his fingers through and ruffles it a little bit.

“See? I told you it’d look good,” she crosses her arms over her chest, eyeing him down. “Maybe tuck it into your jeans a bit… There. _C’est parfait_. You’re fit, you know that right?”

He lets out a breath of laughter, biting back a smile, “Shut up.”

“You look good,” she prods, her eyes glimmering under the artificial light. “Honestly. God, are you blushing?”

“’M not,” he objects as his cheeks take on a slight pink hue. “It’s just hot in here.”

“You know how you always say I should be a model? Well, look at you. You’re Gucci material, babe, you’d blow them all away. Can I buy it for you?”

His smile falters as he starts undoing the buttons of the shirt and sliding it off of his arms. He quickly puts his white shirt back on. “I can buy it myself.”

“Yeah, sure. Okay.”

While they’re waiting in line at the cash register, Juliette takes a peek at the price tag. “Does your stepdad still pay your rent?”

“Yeah. Or at least a good part of it. But that’s just ‘cause my mum’s here, otherwise I would’ve been fucked. But I think he’s had enough of this. Again, I’m always the problem.”

“Babe, don’t say that…”

He shuts down, as he often does. He pays at the checkout and waits for Juliette by the door.

“I’m hungry,” she says. “I know a cheap place, it’s a few minutes’ walk. Want to go? And it’s all on me, I promised, you’ve got no say in it.”

He opens his mouth to protest but he’s cut short. As they leave the store, he spots a group of people hanging out in front of the Gap.

He needs a moment. He keeps repeating to himself that it couldn’t possibly be him, that it would be too cruel, that he’s suffered enough as it is. But it’s all too clear now, he had to face the facts.

What he notices first is that he’s really quite short. Harry must be at least a head taller than he is. His hair is shorter too, his fringe brushed up in a stylish quiff, nothing to do with the wild mane he used to sport as a teen. His skin is beautifully golden, blessed by the sun, just like the summer he met him. It’s been six years since he’s been struck by him for the very first time on a Maravilla beach, and he’s still got him as weak as he was on that first day.

It’s then that he realizes there are other people surrounding him. Two girls and two boys, one of them standing overwhelmingly close to Louis, with his arm wrapped around his lower back; a slightly taller, mixed bloke with muscular arms, strong manly features, and short, tight brown locks.

“Harry?” Juliette calls out when he doesn’t seem to react to her suggestion. He still doesn’t answer, so she looks in the same direction he’s stuck on, and gasps loudly. She seems to have recognized the two girls. She runs toward the group and the three girls scream and jump into each other’s arms. Harry watches them from afar and feels like he’s watching a bad play. He can’t believe this is happening. Juliette beckons him to come and he approaches cautiously. Louis’ just spotted him. His mouth hangs slightly open and he’s downright gawking at him, unashamed, as if to make sure it's really him. Harry wants to disappear.

Juliette introduces him to the girls, Chloé and Élisa. He gives them quick kisses on the cheeks and pretends to ignore the way they’re quite literally ogling him. He also greets the two boys; Alex, who he’s convinced he’s already seen on Grindr, and Maël, who’s very obviously Louis’ boyfriend.

Time stands still.

As Juliette greets the others, Harry and Louis meet face to face, at long last. Louis keeps staring for some reason, and now it’s harder than ever to know what’s behind those icy blue eyes of his. Louis steps closer, almost tiptoeing to be able to press a kiss on each one of his cheeks. “Hey,” he says.

Harry gulps. “Hey,” he answers feebly. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Louis repeats, slightly amused. He looks him up and down, studying him intently. Something flickers fleetingly behind his eyes, it’s too quick for Harry to interpret.

“You two know each other?” Maël notices.

Louis steps back a little. “Yes,” he says, still holding his gaze. “Our families know each other. We spent our summer holidays together once… Twice, actually.”

“That’s nice,” Maël says, snaking an arm around Louis’ waist.

Juliette doesn’t have a clue – she doesn’t realize what’s going on, can’t possibly grasp how monumental this moment is, and Harry can’t blame her. It’s still early in the evening. She and the girls suggest they go and sit down at a café terrace. Juliette glares at Harry – he’ll have to come with. No one objects, so the little group happily heads toward the exit, Juliette and the girls chatting loudly and excitedly, Harry following behind without a merry bone in his body.

The city’s yellow. All of it. The sky, the heat, the smog, the Haussmann buildings, the sidewalks, and the streets. It’s a stifling yellow, hot and sticky; the sun is low, slowly making its way down West. Harry hangs out far behind them, busying himself with his phone so no one will have to talk to him.

The group settles down in the first terrace they find, a few blocks from the mall. Harry drops down by Juliette’s side, running a hand through his hair and lowering his sunglasses over his eyes. His back digs into the hard wood of the chair as he leans back; around him the voices encroach and overlap, they’re talking about too many things at the same time and he tries to tune them out before he goes into sensory overload. He focuses on Juliette for a while. She giggles a lot and her smile stretches from ear to ear as her attention drifts from Chloé to Élisa and Harry quickly learns that they were all together in high school.

The _garçon_ comes up after a few minutes to take their orders. Harry asks for a beer but deep down wishes they could serve him straight vodka. He watches as Juliette pulls a cigarette out of her pack. She asks for a light and Louis digs into his own pocket before handing her a shiny red lighter. Harry follows his hand, and after a while, their eyes meet again.

For the first time in months, he feels something. A sharp pang in the heart, a painful squeeze in the chest he could’ve done without.

Louis lowers his eyes as Maël distractedly wraps a strong arm around his shoulders, going on about those stuck-up Italian tourists he had to serve in the restaurant he worked at. Everyone hangs onto his words except for Louis, who reaches for the single cigarette that’s stuck behind his ear, lighting up the tip with the lighter that Juliette just gave him back. And then, Harry notices something shiny; he’s got a small diamond stud on his left ear. It sparkles with the sun, catching its every last beam and captivating Harry’s attention for a solid minute.

Time goes by, slowly trickling down like honey in the midst of a city known to be bustling with life. He listens in quietly, never speaks unless he’s asked a question. He learns that Louis used to live here, that he’d started his studies at the private school for architecture, and that he’d dropped out and moved back to the Jura a little over a year ago. He works in Poligny, now, oddly enough – Harry remembers how desperate he had been to move out of his little town. Something dramatic must’ve happened for him to give his life up and move back home. But that’s all Louis cares to explain, and Harry surely isn’t going to pry.

Maël is from here, and they only ever see each other when Louis travels up to the city, which isn’t that often according to him. He's staying over at Maël’s for the weekend as the little group has planned to go to Lollapalooza together.

“Are you joking?” Juliette explains, wildly gesturing with her still blazing cigarette between her fingers. “Harry and I will be there!”

“Both days?” Louis asks them.

“Yeah,” Harry answers. “You?... I mean, all of you.”

“Both days, yeah,” he nods. “Then I’ve got to go back. Got work on Tuesday.”

The discussion picks up and the subject changes so quickly Harry loses the chance of asking another question. He falls silent again. As time goes by, he keeps ordering the same drink every time the _garçon_ walks by. Juliette can’t help but notice the row of empty beer bottles in front of him; she glances at him, quickly, like a quiet warning, and resumes her lively chat with the girls. Then her phone starts vibrating sporadically, so much that she can no longer pretend to ignore it. She takes a glimpse at the screen, shoots off a quick answer to whoever was texting her, and shoves it into her purse. Harry figures it must be his mum who’s trying to find out how he’s doing, prying into his life from afar – she always goes through Juliette when they’re out and about as she’d made it clear she doesn’t trust him. What Anne loved most about Juliette was that she was reliable, that she never, ever lied, and that she’d take _her_ side over his anytime.

When he orders another bottle, Juliette decides to take matters into her own hands. She turns to him and fakes a little smile. “That’ll be enough, don’t you think?”

“Let me be. I don’t tell you what to do.”

He instantly regrets it. Everybody’s heard them. Juliette sends him a death glare, “Stop it, Harry,” she says, low, but firmly.

He doesn’t argue. He asks for his tab, slams a few bills down, and rises to his feet, striding around the table to get away from her.

“Where are you going?” Juliette nervously calls out.

“Bathroom,” he says as he heads into the café. “Be right back, don’t call her.”

Of course, he isn’t going to be right back. He's lied and he's fine with it, though he does go to the bathroom. He locks himself in and goes to stand before the mirror, tying his hair up in a bun and trying to avoid his own eyes to no avail. He runs some much-needed cold water over his face and stares at himself. His reflection scrutinizes him in return, so full of scorn and reproach. If he knew he’d get an answer, he’d ask himself, _what have I ever done to you?_

He feels sick to his stomach, it’s the first time he’s been in such pain in months. He’d gotten awfully used to the void; now that that’s changed, he wishes he could go back to feeling nothing.

He shouldn’t, but he blames it all on Louis. He’s got him etched in his mind now, and he can’t stop thinking about him; the gentle rasp in his voice, his lips whenever he blows a faint cloud of smoke through them, his diamond earring, his golden skin, the deep, deep blue of his eyes. And then there’s his boyfriend; tall, strong, handsome Maël who’s got him wrapped around his finger. It blows his mind just how much he’s changed.

After he’s collected himself enough to avoid breaking down in public, he slips out from the backdoor and into the busy street, soundlessly melting into the busy crowd, irreproachable. He pops by the first corner store he encounters on his way and buys a pack of cigarettes that screams at him in big bold letters, _“FUMER TUE”_. He swerves off the street when he thinks he’s walked far enough and plops down onto a small set of stairs overlooking the crossroad, right by a row of electric scooters. He lights a cigarette, sheltering it from the wind with his hand. As he watches cars and motorcycles zooming by in front of him, Charlie finds a way to crawl back into his mind. He breathes in and out, slowly, chasing away a memory that had been deeply buried until now. It was a warm summer evening, Charlie had taken him for a ride at the back of his motorcycle, speeding through the streets with the wind in their hair. He doesn’t think he’s ever been as happy as he was that day.

It wilts away with the next gust of wind, and as real life catches up to him, he reaches for his phone to message his mum.

**To: Maman**

_I’m fine. Juliette isn’t with me, no need to message her_

She answers immediately.

**From: Maman**

_Why isn’t she with you?_

**To: Maman**

_I’ll be back soon._

**From: Maman**

_I want you here by 9._

**To: Maman**

_Fine_

He stretches his legs, placing his hands on the steps, on either side of his body, just taking it all in. On the side of the road is a man drumming away and playing a catchy little rhythm that manages to get a few coins out of well-fined ears.

Just as he was finally considering going home, someone comes to sit next to him. Harry doesn’t need to look at him. He knows.

“ _Salut_ ,” Louis says to him.

“ _Salut_. Have you been following me?”

“… Yeah,” he confesses, shifting a little closer. “You just took off for no reason. Was worried about you.”

“That’s a little creepy,” he mumbles, staring straight ahead. “What’d you tell the others?”

“Nothing. I don’t owe anybody anything. Just got up and left. What are you doing here all by yourself?”

“Too many people. And Juliette needs to realize I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Hm,” Louis nods thoughtfully. “Is she your girlfriend then?”

“No. We dated for, like, four minutes back in March. Doesn’t really count, though.”

“Right.”

They’re silent for a while, and the street musician’s music replaces their words. It’s still unbearably hot. At some point, he finishes his cigarette and stubs it out with the heel of his shoe. “I’m going to go home now,” Harry says.

“Wait. Listen… I’m glad we met again. Really.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry finally turns to him. For a split second, it’s like he’s come face to face with the kid he knew when he was fifteen, on the foothills of the Jura. Painfully real and honest.

“Yes,” he insists. “It’s funny, I was thinking about you not long ago. Didn’t think I’d see you again. But now we’re here and…”

“And I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

He stands up abruptly and rushes down the stairs, heading down the street without even sparing a look for him.

*

Louis heads back to the café, still in mild shock. He finds his seat and Maël greets him with a little kiss on the cheek, no questions asked. For the next ten minutes, he just sits there all silent and thoughtful.

“D’you know where Harry’s gone off to?” Juliette asks, biting her lip, all worried all of a sudden. “Can’t seem to reach him.”

“He’s gone home, I think. What’s wrong?”

“His mum called me a half-hour ago. I’m not supposed to leave his side.”

“Why not? And why’s his mum calling _you_?”

“Well, she knows he’s safe if he’s with me. It’s reassuring for her, I suppose.”

“Reassuring?” Louis repeats, frowning in confusion. “What is he, five?”

“He’s tried to kill himself earlier this year,” she says matter-of-factly, after taking a drag from her cigarette. “You can’t blame the poor woman for wanting to look out for him. She’s driven herself sick with worry, she feels guilty whenever she gets more than two hours of sleep at night. It’s only fair that I help her out.”

*

Harry never takes his weekends off. He likes his job. He likes art, and he likes being surrounded by it all day long. He likes not having to socialize with a whole bunch of people, and above all, he likes not having his mum breathing down his neck every waking second. His job at the Louvre had become a new source of balance in his life.

He’s had to take those days off, this week. It’s the first day of the festival, and at eleven o’clock he’s still in bed, deeply asleep, sprawled on his stomach and buried under the sheets with his arms crossed under the pillow, his dead phone lying somewhere on the ground. The sun had invited itself earlier, aiming to wake him up. It shines brightly into the tiny room, warming up his bed; all in vain. It’s only when Juliette takes over, stepping into the room and gently shaking him that he deigns to open his eyes. “Time to get up.”

He takes a deep, deep breath, feeling his lungs swelling with air. Juliette opens the window wide and in turn, the city invites itself in, an assortment of engine noises, voices, honks, and laughter. She paces around the room, tidying up as she goes and putting away the rubbish and the dirty laundry.

“Remember those 150 euros, Harry,” she says, grabbing hold of a discarded shirt and neatly hanging it onto a spare rack. “Go on, get up then. You need to eat something before we leave. Your mum’s made crêpes, they look divine.”

“Don’t want to see them,” he grunts against his pillow.

“What are you on about?” she asks as she sits at the end of his bed. He still hasn’t moved by an inch.

“It was supposed to be just the two of us, don’t want to have to deal with other people.”

“Oh,” she says. “Is this about that boy we met yesterday? Louis, is it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Come to think of it, he was sort of familiar. Felt like I’ve seen him before but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it hit me just this morning. Isn’t that who you’ve been stalking with my account? The one you used to have a gigantic cru-”

“Yes,” he cuts her. “That’s him.”

“Right! He’s fit, that one. Not bad at all. His boyfriend’s hotter, though.”

Harry cranes his neck just to shoot a death glare at her. “Are you serious?”

Juliette starts laughing, “Joking!” she leans in to ruffle his hair. “Anyway, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like he’s single or anything. I know you’ve ended on bad terms but there’s no ambiguity here.”

“Me and you,” he presses. “Nobody else.”

“ _Oui, d’accord._ Now get up. Take your meds, I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”

*

Juliette keeps her word.

It’s just the two of them all day long. There’s something electric in the atmosphere; the music is loud, the bass resonates deep within the ribcages and the artists are sweating a little, under the warm light of the projectors and the heat of the early evening. Harry and Juliette are somewhere in the middle of the crowd, tossed around in an ocean of sweaty people. Toward the end of the evening, Juliette’s favorite band makes a smashing appearance on stage. Harry proposes to lift her up on his shoulders so she can see better. He crouches down as she climbs on him excitedly, he holds both her hands to help her remain steady before releasing them. She screams with joy as the first few notes of her all-time favorite song crackle to life, blinded by the colorful lights. With his phone in one of his hands, Harry films the stage, making a note of sending her the video later on, and with the other one, he brings a bottle to his lips, swallowing its scorching contents down in one go. And for one short, _short_ moment, he’s pretty happy to be alive.

The night is just a hazy, cloudy mess from then on. He’s getting a little light-headed if his heavy eyelids and red tinted cheeks are anything to go by. It’s been a while since he’s let himself completely go, and the music is certainly helping. He feels invincible like nothing could hurt him. He can’t even feel anything but the flash of the strobe lights against his eyes. It’s delightful to say the least, but he’s aware that this is only temporary, that he’ll wake up shit faced the next morning and everything he’s succeeded in repressing that night will hit him like a ton of bricks. Another novelty tonight is this new-found boldness that’s taking over him. Now that Juliette’s climbed down from his shoulders, she’s quickly turned into an easy target for drunk, vile men to prey on. Harry shoves one of them back, rather violently – he’d been clinging to her for the past few minutes, touching and groping her even though she’s turned him down multiple times. “Get off her,” he shouts at him. “She said no, what the _fuck_ ’s wrong with you? Don’t fucking touch her, you fucking creep.”

“Harry, let’s go,” Juliette quietly pleads as she tries to hold onto him. He glances briefly over his shoulder and spots two security agents by the fence; they’re staring at them. So, he gets hold of himself and storms away, dragging Juliette with him. Out of the crowd, it’s actually chillier than he thought. They saunter away aimlessly at first. He considers calling it a night; he’s seen his favorite band and that was more than enough. But at that moment, he realizes his troubles are far from being over. On his way to one of the little bars, he catches sight of the group from yesterday, over by the tall replica of the Eiffel Tower, all illuminated in blue, pink, and purple. He comes to a halt. At the foot of the structure, Louis and Maël are all over each other, heavily making out in the open for everyone to see. Harry stands alone on the muddy ground just a few dozen steps from them, weak at the knees and blinded by the lights coming from all sides. People move around him, occasionally bumping into him— he doesn’t react. There’s a bitterness rising in his throat, strangling him, clouding his mind. When Juliette comes back, she finds him with tears in his eyes, though she doesn’t notice and hands him one of the bottles of water she bought at the little makeshift bar before taking off, prancing on her way to meet Chloé and Élisa.

He prayed he would go unnoticed, but when Maël disappears somewhere behind the little kiosks, Louis spots him. He looks hesitant as he weighs his options, staring back and forth between his friends and Harry, who still hasn’t moved. The music in the distance resonates throughout his empty head and his entire body as Louis makes up his mind and walks up to him confidently. He speaks up first, “You came after all.”

Harry averts his eyes, stunned. “After all?” he repeats, sniffling a bit and wiping the tears away before they roll down his cheeks and embarrass him. “Of course, I came. What made you think I wouldn’t come?”

“Don’t know. Juliette told Chloé you didn’t want to see me.”

“Did she, now,” he mumbles, staring behind Louis. The girls are taking a group selfie together in front of the fake Eiffel Tower. “It’s not what I meant,” he tries to justify himself. “Don’t take it personally. I’d planned on going alone at first. My mum just… whatever.”

“Oh,” he smiles a little, clearly amused, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is that what you do, then? You go to festivals by yourself? How fun.”

“Well, clearly, I’m not alone, now, so… Look, your boyfriend’s back, he’s looking for you. You should go.”

“So what?” he shrugs and steps a little closer. “Can’t we chat for five minutes?”

“I need a drink.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Harry ignores him and makes his way to the little bar, Louis trailing closely behind. He orders a drink, and as he waits in line, he can feel his gaze weighing heavily on him. For some reason, his mere presence is becoming overwhelming and he feels like he’s suffocating. He wants him to disappear. When he’s had enough, he turns to him and asks, “Why do you keep staring at me?”

“I’m... I’m just looking at you,” he replies, and it’s obnoxious how calm he is about this.

“If you’ve got something to say, say it. Honestly, just say it.”

“Well… We can’t talk about it here, now can we.”

“So leave, then!” he bursts, and Louis’ taken aback as he points to the exit. “I told you I wanted to be alone, why do you keep following me?”

“Harry…”

“Don’t _Harry_ me!”

Before this goes any further, Maël steps in to take Louis away, who complies quietly, but not without taking one last good look at Harry over his shoulder.

The night ends as it should’ve ended. Harry’s completely hammered and out of it, can barely walk in a straight line. He sticks to some stranger he finds mildly attractive, insists on giving him his number which he repeats three times to make sure he’s written it down correctly. Juliette drags him out of the venue as he makes a phone sign with his fingers and screams at the stranger, his voice all raspy and slurred, “GIMME A CALL WHEN YOU CAN!”

*

He wakes up to the unfamiliar smell of vanilla in the bedsheets. He squints at the brightness of the room. It’s twice as big as his, invaded by an entire family of plants. The mattress is soft, his own weight pulling him in. There was no way he was going to be able to get out. He searches for his phone, which he finds upon a small bedside table, plugged in. It’s 10 in the morning. He’s got two messages from his mum, one from his sister and a reminder to take his meds the night before. He looks up as someone enters the room. Lying on his side, he watches quietly as Juliette puts on makeup in front of her little vanity. He’s always found it fascinating how easily she does her eyeliner. She clocks him in the mirror. “You’re finally up! Rise and shine.”

“My head’s killing me,” he croaks, clearing his throat.

“No wonder.”

“Where’d you sleep?”

“Next to you. You wouldn’t stop moving, I was this close to pushing you off the bed.”

“’M sorry. My mum knows ‘m here?”

“Of course. I’ve made breakfast. We can Uber there if you’d like. That’s if you manage to get up.”

She closes the lid on her eyeliner and chooses among an entire row of statement _rouge à lèvres_.

“Can’t be arsed. There’s no way in hell I’m getting out of bed. Go on without me, I’d just ruin your day.”

“You want to stay here?”

“I’m _staying_ here, is what I’m saying.”

“Fine.” She pulls out her phone and quickly types a message that she sends to a group chat. “See you tonight then. I’ll go meet the others. There’s aspirin in the drawer…” She pauses to think it through, then opens the drawer in question. She takes the box of aspirin, pulls out a single pill, and stores the rest into her purse, out of his reach. “I believe one will be enough. My mum will be home all day, call out her name if you need anything. My brother’s right next door. Don’t try anything.”

She brings him water along with a hearty breakfast, complete with half of a baguette, an assortment of fresh jams, and a steaming cup of coffee. She reminds him to take his meds, and leaves for the day.

He doesn’t eat anything, doesn’t touch the water, let alone his meds. He closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep. As the hours tick by, he starts feeling like he’s drifting in and out of sleep and it’s getting harder to tell his states of consciousness apart. When Juliette’s mother asks him if he wants to eat as it’s almost lunchtime, he refuses politely.

He gets two messages in the late afternoon. He inhales deeply, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and reaches for the device, unplugging it and rolling over to the other side. He blinks a couple of times. Louis had sent something on Messenger. He’d unblocked him.

_Hi Harry. I'm going back home tomorrow morning, we need to talk. Can we meet tonight? I can leave Lolla a little earlier if that works for you._

_I unblocked your number and tried to call you... have you changed it?_

Harry writes a short reply:

_I have._

_…Could I get the new one please?_

Without much conviction, he types his own number and sends it over. Louis calls him almost instantly, and he watches the device ring for the next thirty seconds. Louis calls him once again, and when it’s become clear Harry isn’t going to answer, he sends him another message.

_Pick up the phone. You’re being childish._

Just for that, Harry leaves him hanging.

_I’m sorry. Please call me back._

*

The day Harry breaks down is around the middle of August. Until very recently he’s been just a shadow of himself, a shell of a man floating aimlessly in a most monotonous and mind-numbing existence. Things were starting to change. That day, he realizes he's feeling something new. One thing, only. A vicious sting of anger, strong enough to bury its roots deep inside of him, taking over his words and his actions and growing sturdier with each passing day. He doesn't know who this anger is directed against, or even where it sprang from, but what he knows is that it's there to stay and that he's just a helpless puppet to its power. The most mind-blowing thing about this is that he can _see_ himself doing things that are so unlike him, and he _can't help it_. He's as powerless as a man witnessing a horrifying massacre, live at the circus.

It's pouring down – hard. He has gotten off work at three and has headed over to a colleague’s place who’d invited him. They get along quite well. Valentin works at the museum’s souvenir shop and they would usually spend their breaks together. Harry never saw him as more than a friend for the first few weeks, but as time went by the man seemed to take wicked pleasure in flirting with him through admirably well-thought-out puns and little winky faces in his messages. Harry saw through his little game quickly enough. He knows he hasn’t invited him over for a game of chess. In other words, he hadn’t expected to see much of his apartment. And he didn't. He’s only had a good look at the hallway leading to his room, and that was about it.

Harry undresses him, lets himself be undressed, and lets him do whatever it is he wanted to do with him.

It’s bleak, to say the least. Sort of brutal, too, and medical, if he had to describe it. The bedpost slams into the wall with each thrust and he hopes for Valentin’s sake that his neighbors are understanding.

Harry’s kneeling on the bed, his arms crossed over the pillow, red, clammy cheek pressed against his own forearm as he stares off into the distance, eyes fixated on a large Roland-Garros 2025 poster. Valentin didn’t strike him as a tennis fan. He did watch the tournaments on TV back in May, and he wonders if he was there, somewhere in the crowd. He thinks it could be a great conversation starter, next time they see each other. It would definitely ease the post-coital awkwardness he always experienced with his one-night stands.

“ _Ça va_?” he asks him, breathless in between thrusts.

“Mh-hm.”

“ _T’y es, là?_ – You close?”

“Uh-huh… sure.”

“Won’t last long…”

The rain pours against the window. He wonders if it would be wise to call a taxi to go back home. He’s a bit short on money but he doesn’t want to get soaking wet, the nearest metro station is miles away and they’d had to make a run for it on their way here. His mind keeps wandering off and he’s pretty much out of it by the time Valentin grunts and pulls out. Harry hasn’t even come. He feels like he’s wasted his time. But the thing is, even the times he _does_ get to come aren’t any more satisfactory. There’s always that persistent impression that something essential is missing. He leaves a part of himself in these men’s beds, as though they were only taking from him without ever giving him anything.

Harry remains in bed with him, lingering in his arms for a while, just listening to the rain. He hears him striking a match and lighting a cigarette with it—how disgustingly hipster of him. He takes a drag, blowing out the smoke in long, drawn-out puffs. In a moment of weakness, Harry wishes he could just kiss him instead of speckling his skin with fallen cigarette ashes.

In an effort to redeem himself, Valentin brings his hand down between their bodies and starts stroking him blindly, “You good?” he whispers, meeting his eyes for the first time since they’ve started this thing.

Harry just nods in response as he works his hand around him, bringing him closer and closer to the edge. He curses under his breath as he comes steadily all over Valentin’s fingers.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that? Why don’t you stay the night? I could make it up to you,” he suggests, wiping him and his own fingers clean.

“Can’t,” he says, sliding out of bed and picking his discarded clothes up off the floor.

“What, you’re leaving already?” he props himself up on his elbow, all sprawled out shamelessly across the mattress.

He puts his clothes back on, struggling to pull his tight jeans up. “Got errands to run… someone’s waiting for me at home,” Valentin chuckles in amusement and Harry registers how wrong this sounded, but he doesn’t care. “That was good. We should do it again, definitely.”

“Anytime, gorgeous. Ring me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, sliding his feet into his worn shoes. “See you.”

He practically rushes out of the apartment and before he knows it, he finds himself on the landing. It’s raining buckets outside; he can see it. One of Valentin’s neighbors, a bitter, middle-aged woman, steps out at the same time, eyeing him down in disgust. He pays her no mind and leaves. Outside, he pulls the large hood of his black oversized cotton sweatshirt over his head to shelter himself from the rain. He heads down the grey, chilly street, his hands buried in his jean pockets, his earphones stuck deep in his ears. He stops by a little convenience store to buy rye flour, cane sugar, a box of tea, and some dates, and speeds toward the metro station. When he gets to his apartment building, he momentarily forgets that he doesn’t live alone. As he walks up the stairs, he hears a panicked voice coming from the second floor. “Harry, is that you?”

He lets out a long sigh and climbs the last remaining steps, pulling his earphones out and mentally preparing himself for what is to come. Anne is standing on the porch; the door is wide open and her eyes are wet with tears. “Do you know what time it is?” she asks, following him into the kitchen as he walks in.

“It’s five,” he answers casually, emptying his shopping bag onto the counter. “The sun is still out there and I’m in here.”

“You weren’t answering the phone! What were you even doing? I know you clocked out at three, I’ve got your schedule with me!”

“My phone’s dead,” he lies. “I was with someone, and then I stopped by the store.”

She circles around the counter. “Who were you with?”

“That’s none of your business,” he simply says, storing everything into the pantry.

“Of course it’s my business!” she shouts. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

“Why are you screaming?” he shouts back and takes a step closer. “I’m alive! I’m right here in front of you, why are you still screaming?”

“You must be joking. Do you want me to remind you what happened? You want me to remind you why I can’t possibly trust you?”

“Go on, then! Remind me what the fuck happened as if I wasn’t there! I’ve been telling you for eight months straight that I’m not going to do it again. For eight bloody months, you’ve been acting like I’m some fucking toddler, eight months you’ve been taking the piss and I _can’t even breathe_ because you won’t let me. And what’s worse, you’re dragging other people into this. Juliette’s never asked for this, she’s my bloody ex-girlfriend! You harass her day and night, shit, she should get paid for this! And it’s pointless! Everything you’re doing, it’s pointless! If I wanted to kill myself again I would do it even if you were standing right in front of me. There’s nothing you can do about it! Now what are you ruining your life for? What are you ruining mine for?”

“How dare you… How _dare_ you talk to me like that, after everything I’ve done for you? Do you know what it was like, coming home and finding you on that bathroom floor?” she asks, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Do you know what it was like, waiting for someone at the hospital to tell me you were going to be okay? Do you know how much I’ve prayed for you, you ungrateful little… If it hadn’t been for me, you’d be dead by now. If I didn’t love you the way I do, you would have been…”

“I didn’t do it to hurt you!” he screams back as his eyes finally fill with tears.

“Yes, you did! You hate me, and you _wanted_ to hurt me, that’s why you waited ‘til you were hom-”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you! I never did, Maman, I love you, it’s got nothing to do with you. I was in pain… I love you, thank you for everything you’ve done for me, but you can’t keep doing this. _I can’t breathe_ with you around…”

Anne hasn’t moved. The words are stuck in her throat as she fights back new tears. After a while, she regains enough composure to say, low and shaky, “Who’s going to take care of you if I leave?”

“I will!” he answers, and it seems so obvious to him as tears flow down his cheeks and into his neck. “I’ll take care of myself. _I’m not a little kid,_ Maman. When will you get it? I can live without you. I’ve done it for two years.”

“Oh, yeah? How’d that work out for you in the end?”

“Stop it. Get out of my place, now.”

Anne wipes off her tears as she represses a nervous laugh. “Your place? That Robin’s been paying rent for? We’ll see. You’ll regret what you just said.” She disappears into the living room, pulling her suitcase out from under the sofa and packing her things. Harry watches silently as she paces around the flat, gathering all her belongings before zipping the suitcase up and dragging it over to the front door. “And remember this. Everything I did for you, all my fucking life, I did it out of love. You’ve never truly been alone, have you? Well, look. Charlie’s dead now. And you want me gone? You want to be grown? Fine. Best of luck to you, big boy that you are.”

She storms out, slamming the door on her way out. The noise bounces off the walls, echoing around for a few split seconds. It’s when the silence falls back, and when he finds himself alone in the middle of his tiny, tiny apartment, that he realizes how right she is. He’s _never_ been entirely alone. Now, with Charlie dead and his mother gone for good, he is. The panic settles in first. He’s got trouble breathing, can’t seem to get enough air in his lungs as he starts hyperventilating and pacing in the little kitchen area. He opens the double doors and steps out into the balcony to catch some fresh air. He sits down onto one of the little garden chairs and breaks into tears, shaking all the way down to his fingers. A full minute hasn’t even gone by and he already regrets what he did. How did he think he could manage on his own like grown-ups do? His mother was right. He was just a little kid and he would never grow up. She’d stunted him enough emotionally that the mere prospect of finding himself on his own was chilling him to the bone. And now it was too late to go back.

It’s getting dark outside, as the night sets in quietly. It’s been a few hours now. He hasn’t left the balcony, but he’s calmed down enough and he can breathe normally again. It’s gotten a lot chillier, and it’s stopped raining. He would’ve given anything for something to smoke, to drink, or just to put between his lips, but he’s got nothing on hand. His cheeks feel taut by the dried tears, and his eyelashes are still wet and clamped together, but he’s not crying anymore.

He survived.

*

In a sudden burst of courage, after washing the breakfast dishes that Saturday, he sends Louis a message.

**To: Louis**

_Hi, you busy?_

He stares at the screen, fingers drumming over the counter impatiently. His heart leaps when he receives a new message. False alarm. It’s his sister.

**From: Gem x**

_Just wanted to say, good on you. Maman deserved to hear the truth, 100%, and you deserve to live your own life. Don’t you for a second regret what you did. It was the right thing. And I know how she gets. I know she must’ve told you something horrible before she left – don’t mind her, she’s just talking out of her arse because she realized she can’t control you anymore. Bravo encore, petit frère, I’m so so so proud of you. Love you, sending you lots of kisses, don’t do anything stupid – ring me when you’ve got a minute x_

He replies back with a simple thank you and puts his phone away. He decides to deep clean the entire place up. He polishes, sweeps, tidies up, and organizes everything for about an hour or two. He found that cleaning was one of the only things that keeps him grounded.

The device buzzes once as he was folding up some bedsheets. He drops everything and rushes to the living room.

**From: Louis**

_hi, no i’m not busy_

Harry lets out a sigh. His heartbeat picks up, he can almost hear it.

**To: Louis**

_Can I call you?_

**From: Louis**

_yea_ _sure_

Without hesitation, Harry calls him and puts him on speaker. He presses his elbows against the counter and waits. Louis picks up after a few seconds, his voice filling up the tiny kitchen, “Oui allô?”

“Hi.”

“Hi. How are you?”

“’M good. You?”

“I’m all right.”

“Listen, I just… I wanted to apologize for last time. Got carried away, and I was a bit drunk if you could tell… Also, I’m sorry I left, that other time. And sorry for ignoring your calls and messages.”

“… Okay.”

“I was going through a rough time.”

“Feeling better now?”

“Definitely.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“I wanted to ask you… Do you want to… I mean… I want to see you.”

“What do you mean? You want to come down here in French cow and wine country again?”

“No,” he says, frowning. “I mean, Poligny’s lovely and all, but I was thinking you could come here instead. I could pay for your trip. And you’re welcome to stay at my place… There’s no one home now. It’s small but we’ll both fit.”

“Oh. Your mum’s gone, then?”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ll explain later. But… Yeah. I don’t know. I’m a little busy with work at the moment. In between shifts as we’re talking.”

“You know we need to talk. I don’t see us doing this over the phone. And I’ll be too busy once September starts, so.”

“Right. When do you want us to meet?”

“As soon as you can. I’m not doing much until school starts.”

“All right. I’ll see about that. I’ll message you.”

“Good. Let me know.”

“I will. Au revoir.”

“Au revoir, Louis.”

*

Louis keeps his word, too.

During the week, he lets him know he’ll be free on the weekend. Harry sends him the address and asks him if he’d like a Mexican quinoa casserole for dinner. Naturally, Louis asks him if he’s vegan, and Harry replies with a simple “How did you know?”.

It’s raining again, on Friday night. It rains so much in the summer; you’d think this was London.

But this is Paris, oddly enough. And under the rain, the city is grey. All of it. The sky, the cold, the light fog, the Haussmann buildings, the sidewalks, and the streets. It’s a dull, depressing kind of grey. Harry’s busy preparing dinner, a small thrifted radio set placed on the kitchen table, airing the local news. As he chops a handful of coriander he listens half-heartedly. An unprecedented, intense heat wave had just hit the Middle East, killing several dozen people. He hates those kinds of news; it just frustrates him to no end. For years, decades, people have been predicting such tragic events, have fought long and hard to try to prevent them from happening, back when it was still salvageable, back when governments and corporations had a chance to do something about it and never did. He’s fought too, he’s done his part, he’s done all he could possibly do. The future seems bleak. He reaches back and changes the channel; a piece of classical music fills the room.

Soon enough, his doorbell rings. Harry puts the chopper down and wipes his hand on a tea towel on his way to the entrance. He picks up the landline; Louis’ here. He presses a button on the intercom and it opens the door on the ground floor. As soon as that’s done, he steps out of his flat and into the landing, his heart palpitating with excitement. He leans over the railing and sees him climbing the stairs. He’s wearing this dark green Adidas sweatshirt, with the hood over his head, and a black backpack. He trots up the steps and after a while, he looks up and smiles. “Been waiting for me, huh?” he asks, mildly amused as he jogs up the stairs to reach the landing.

“Hey. Yeah.”

Louis takes his hood off, messing up his hair in the process. He steps closer and kisses him on the cheeks, instinctively placing a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” Harry nods. “How was your trip?”

“Good. Yeah. Good, actually. This sweet old lady fell asleep on my shoulder on the way to Gare de Lyon. Didn’t have the heart to wake her up.”

Harry giggles softly and lets him in. He offers to take his bag and Louis lets him, lingering in the entrance while Harry’s disappeared off into a bedroom. Louis steps out of his wet shoes and glances around, captivated by the place. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back, hopelessly attempting to style it in front of a little artisanal mirror hanging on a wall. Harry comes back quickly enough. The first thing Louis notices is that he seems far too big for this place. Everything here was small. The furniture, the narrow hallways, the doors.

“I’ve only got a single bed,” Harry says as he heads towards the small kitchen, which could easily be seen from the living room. “But the sofa doubles as a bed too. I’ll sleep there tonight; you can have my room.”

Louis doesn't argue. He plops down onto the white sofa covered with a wool blanket. He lifts his legs up, buries his feet underneath a large couch cushion, and leans against the backrest, pulling his phone out to answer a few messages.

Harry goes back to chopping vegetables into small cubes, quickening the pace now that Louis’ arrived. On the radio, a horde of violins plays a melody that Louis recognizes but can’t name for the life of him. He puts his phone away and shifts toward the kitchen. Harry’s hair is insanely long – it blows him away how bloody well it suits him. It curls nicely at the ends, framing his face beautifully. It’s like he was made for this look.

“Do you need help with dinner?”

“ _Non, merci._ ”

“Good then. I'm a disaster in the kitchen. Can’t cook to save my bloody life.”

“Chef Gusteau said _anyone can cook_.”

“Yeah, well I haven’t got a little rat underneath my chef’s hat to guide me, now have I. Granted, I’m in Paris… I’ve got that down, but that’s about it.”

Louis sees a smile sketching itself on his lips; one that doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes. He doesn’t laugh. He finishes slicing the bell peppers and adds them to the diced red onions, celery, and zucchini in a large frying pan. Then it’s Harry’s turn to ask him a question. “Does your boyfriend know you're here?”

Louis shifts on the couch, fingers fiddling with a row of loose fringe on a tiny pillow. “We’ve split up.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he says, mechanically, devoid of any hint of sympathy. “What happened?”

“It’s been a rough few weeks, actually. We’ve been together since March, but the thing is I rarely ever come to the city anymore, so… I don’t know. He must’ve had enough of this long-distance thing. That’s city gays for you.”

“Hm… Are country gays any better?” he asks, stirring the vegetables around the pan and risking a glance at him.

“Not exactly, but… I feel as though people here don’t… value relationships as much ‘cause they’re just spoilt for choice, here, aren’t they? Can find a replacement just ‘round the corner, the city’s crawling with them. Take a stroll down the Marais you’ll just get overwhelmed.”

“… I don’t care for the Marais that much.”

“Christ… You’re one of them. Have I offended you?”

“Not at all.”

“Do you agree, then?”

“What?” he smiles. “That all we do here in _Paree_ is sleep around, no strings attached?”

“Well, do you?”

“… It _is_ a good way of life.”

“God… I don’t miss it. The Scene here is something else.”

“Getting lots of action in your little village, then?”

“More than you think, actually.”

Louis sinks into the couch, resting his head against a cushion and twirling his phone around as a way to keep his fingers occupied. He glances around the tiny space that serves as a living room. There are dozens of framed paintings on the walls, and heavy, colorful coffee-table books.

_The 100 Painters of Tomorrow._

_History of Beauty._

_Painting and Experience in Fifteenth-Century Italy._

Upon the table, right at the center and mounted on a pile of hardcovers is a miniature statue which he immediately recognizes as the Winged Victory of Samothrace. “I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s lovely. What do you do?”

“I’m an art history major at l’École du Louvre. I’m also working part-time at the museum.”

“Le Louvre? That’s brilliant. Didn’t know you were into art… I mean… I would’ve never guessed. Never really knew much about you, did I.”

Harry smiles, once again, and this time one of his dimples pops up. He adds a can of corn, some quinoa, and vegetable broth to the pan. “Well, I am. Been going to the Louvre every week since I moved here. Took me a few months but I’ve finally seen everything there is to see. You wouldn’t believe how big it actually is. Now I could probably tell you a little bit about every work of art they’ve got.”

“Oh yeah? That’s good…. I’ve been there once. I must’ve been through, like, three rooms, just to see what everybody else came to see…Then I left, I couldn’t do it anymore,” he trails off, chuckling along with him. “What’s your favorite collection?”

“Well, I do like the Italian Renaissance. Botticelli, Masaccio, and all that. It’s mind-blowing, really. Tourists usually just skip over those rooms and run straight to see Mona Lisa and call it a day, it’s a bit sad actually. And I also think Islamic art’s just gorgeous.”

“You got yourself some little sculptures, too.”

“These are replicas from the souvenir shop. The one that’s on the table, the Victory of Samothrace, it cost me an arm.”

“I’ll try not to break it then… Would you,” he starts asking, stops for a while, and decides to go through with it. “I’d love for you to take me there one day. You could give me your own personalized tour of the museum and you could show me everything you like… How does that sound? If you don’t mind, of course. And I’d be a good listener. I’ll take notes and everything.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiles, liking the idea. “Why not? That’d be nice… What about you?” He asks, turning the stove on and heading to the counter to start cutting some fruits for dessert. “Why’d you leave Paris? I thought the Jura wasn’t for you.”

The silence that follows his question can’t possibly be good. Harry doesn’t think too much of it and keeps on slicing a mango into pieces. And that’s when he drops the news.

“Well…I guess there's no easy way to put it. My mum died. About a year and a half ago. So there's that”

Harry feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, or a roof, some hundred stories above the ground. His heart sinks, painfully. He puts the knife down and turns around.

“Fuck… I’m sorry. I’m so… I’m so sorry, Louis. I know how much you loved her, I... I honestly don’t know what to say. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He looks at Louis. His eyes are dry, but when he answers, it’s obvious he’s trying hard not to break. “Yeah,” he says, shakily, and clears his throat. “And… Well, Dan travels a lot for his job. And the little ones… the twins and the little ones, they need me there. Lottie and Fiz, they’re both studying abroad in Geneva. That leaves me. And honestly, if I can be a hundred percent honest with you, I don’t want to be anywhere else. I feel… As long as I’m with my family, that’s fine with me. I work with the winegrowers. Remember them, the Perrier? Family business? They used to hire me for the summer, now I’ve got a full-time job. And the pay’s good too. And, well… Whenever I can, I catch a train to Paris to see my friends. But my life’s at home now.”

Harry leans back against the counter and tries to pull himself together. He turns off the radio, it feels too inappropriate. “What about school? Didn’t you want to be an architect?”

“I did. As I said, the kids need me. The worst thing that could’ve happened to me, well.. it happened. I couldn’t even do anything about it.” He crosses his arms, all thoughtful. “I wanted to tell them, back at the hospital, I just wanted to tell them… Take me, don’t take my mum. It’s so fucking unfair is what it is. I feel like my life’s over now.”

He pauses for a few seconds, leaving his words hanging as Harry looks down, not daring to meet his eyes, too ashamed to have brought up such painful memories.

“Now Dan wants to sell the house in the Jura. That’s understandable, but it breaks my heart because Maman loved the house. We’ve always been there. And, I mean, we’ve always had the means to move out and live in some big, bustling city…. But she loved the house so much. She loved the town, and the mountains, and the fresh air, and the garden and all the flowers in the summer… I get it, I love it too. Deeply. But now she’s gone and… whatever. I’m sorry, I’ve ruined the mood. I’ll stop now, I’ve cried enough about this as it is.”

“Of course not… Don’t feel bad. I’m really sorry I brought it up. I shouldn’t have. If I’d known… No one’s told me anything.”

“Yeah… I did have you blocked for a couple years.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Also, I forgot to ask you if you wanted anything to drink. It's been a while since I've had any guests.”

“That’s fine. Have you got any milk?”

The memories creep back in and Harry stops dead in the middle of the kitchen. He’s still got the taste on his tongue, still dreams about it at night, sometimes. He’s twenty years old, he’s got a body count higher than he cares to keep track of, and to this day, nothing has lived up to how intense and overwhelming their odd little experience was. “I’ve got oat milk.”

“Yuck. Water, then, please.”

Harry opens the fridge and pulls out a large glass bottle filled with ice-cold water. He pours a glass and brings it to him, dropping down by his side on the small sofa. He turns on his little TV, the one Charlie had bought in their first year. It’s propped up on a tall wooden crate. The screen flashes to life, lighting up the dim room. It’s a live football game that immediately catches Louis’ attention, he shifts forward on the sofa and grabs the remote to turn the volume up. In the middle of the game, he takes the time to ask Harry, “Is this fine? Did you maybe want to watch something else?”

“No. No, that’s fine. You can leave the game on.”

They watch together for a half-hour. Outside, the rain seems to be thinning out. The savory blend of smells emanating from the kitchen reminds Harry that he should have dinner on the table, now. He excuses himself to go fill up two plates and brings them on a tray, along with the water bottle and two glasses. They eat quietly while watching the rest of the game, Louis slipping a compliment about his cooking in between bites, eyes still fixated on the screen.

Harry can’t bring himself to speak first. He’s not actually following the game; he’s just waiting for him to open his mouth and do it first.

He thinks, _maybe after dinner. Or maybe he doesn't dare. Maybe it'll be up to me to attack him first_. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to ruin the evening and this… thing they’ve got going on.

A silent alert on his phone reminds him to take his medication. He stands up and goes to retrieve them from a tiny cupboard, downing them with fresh water as Louis watches him out the corner of his eye. He brings one last bite of veggies into his mouth and starts digging into his sliced-up fruit. “That was divine, Harry. You’ll have to give me the recipe… I’ll give it to Dan. You’re a great cook.”

“Thanks,” he says, taking the empty plates to the sink.

“Can I take a shower?”

“Sure. I’ll show you how it works, it’s a bit tricky to figure out.”

As Louis locks himself in the bathroom, Harry sets on to doing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen, the telling sound of the water jet as background noise – he’s been in that situation too many times now, he knows better than to start imagining things he shouldn’t.

He’s alone in the living room with a beer in his hand when Louis walks out, a white towel tightly wrapped around his small waist. “Could I get changed in your room?” he asks with a little smile.

“Make yourself at home.” And he does. He comes out of the room in his old jogger pants, tight white tee hugging his chest. His body has changed, is what he notices first. It’s a far cry from the one Harry used to adore and praise when Louis was sixteen. He’s obviously gained a little muscle; what used to be fine and delicate a few years ago was now firm and chiseled, visibly built and shaped by physical work. He shaves, too, very closely. But it’ll never be as smooth as before. He joins Harry on the sofa, sitting so unbearably close to him. His hair’s still wet – he’s sitting so close he can see the traces of a fine comb through it. When the living room lamp hits him just right, his diamond earring twinkles. Harry prepares himself for the worst.

Louis takes a deep breath, and then he speaks. “ _Écoute._ I know you’re mad at me, all right. I’m not blind. And, don’t get me wrong, you’ve… every right to be. I understand where you’re coming from. But if you could let me explain myself…”

“All I want to know is why you had me blocked,” Harry says, low and cautious, fleeting eyes escaping his.

“I was afraid.”

“You were afraid,” he repeats, flat and unimpressed. “And how do you think I felt?”

“I’m sorry. I was afraid,” he says again. “I wasn’t ready for this. Didn’t know if I could handle this whole thing. You were so young and… fragile. You needed so much love and attention, I didn’t know if I could give you all that. Didn’t want to hurt you in any way, I knew I would’ve, eventually. Somehow, in some way, I promise I would’ve. You need to understand that I was still growing up as well. I know you thought I had it _all_ figured out back then. It may have seemed like it, but I didn’t. I was just as lost as you were. “

“I wasn’t a little kid,” Harry protests weakly. “I wasn’t fragile. I wasn’t lost. I’m sick of people telling me what I am.”

“But you were, Harry. You were and there’s nothing wrong with that. Look at me,” he gently lifts Harry’s chin with two fingers to get him to look at him. Louis’ eyes are soft and reassuring. “Nothing good ever comes out of burning bridges, you wanted to be grown before your time, and that was the worst thing you could’ve done to yourself. Remember when you said you wanted to be just like me? Do you know how much pressure that put on me? And what’s so good about growing up anyway? It’s never appealed to me. Life was good. Look at us now. And then, there was your mum…”

“We’re bringing my mum into this?”

“She brought her own self into this! Alright? She made me feel like utter shit. She knew about us, she’d found out somehow, don’t know how but she did. She convinced me I had…corrupted you or something. And at the time I believed her. I hate to admit it but there was some truth in what she said.”

“So instead of telling me all this, you thought blocking me was the way to go. And… corrupted,” he repeats, incredulous. “What have we even done? Right, I’ve licked milk off of your body, big fucking deal… That’s about the worst thing we did.”

A smile sketches itself on Louis’ lips and when he starts laughing, Harry does the same. It lightens the mood dramatically, and Harry’s heart isn’t as heavy as it was.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, regaining his composure. “It’s not funny. I’m sorry I acted the way I did. Blocking you wasn’t the best way to go. I need you to know it really meant something to me. I liked you, I did. You weren’t a… holiday romance or whatever. To me it mattered. Just… the timing was awful. I couldn’t possibly have made you happy, back then.”

“You don’t know that. You’ve no idea what would’ve made me happy. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as alive as I did with you.”

“I’m sure you have.”

Harry just shakes his head.

“What’s happened to you?” Louis asks softly.

Harry freezes. His face hardens up as he registers what he’s referring to. “Nothing. Nothing’s happened to me.”

Louis’ silence tells him more than any word he could’ve said. All he wants to do is show up at Juliette’s door and curse her out. He knows she spilled everything, and Louis notices how tense he suddenly gets, he sees his clenching jaw, the blood flowing underneath his cheeks, dyeing them pink, he sees his fist clutching the blanket, his knuckles turning white. So, he shifts a little closer. “It’s all right,” he whispers, holding his hand “It’s all right. You want to talk about it?”

It takes him a moment, but he caves in. “I was sad,” he says, his voice laced with upcoming tears. “And… No. Actually, I wasn’t even sad. That’s the thing. That’s what I tell everybody, but I wasn’t sad at all.”

Louis gives him his full attention. He holds his stare, and, for the first time, Harry feels like someone really _sees_ him. A few drops of water drip down Louis’ hair, running down his neck and staining his shirt. Harry thinks he’s the sweetest creature he’s ever laid eyes on. He wants to reach out and touch his skin, wipe away the droplets and kiss his neck, but he doesn’t. He keeps talking. He talks because Louis listens. He listens without expecting anything in return, he listens without judging him, without blaming him for being the heartless coward he was so often accused of being, without any resentment hidden too close to the surface.

“I wasn’t sad, I was just so numb. My best friend had just died, and I didn’t see the point of it all. I was at my parents’ house in Bordeaux for the holidays, back in January. Thought I’d end it there but my mum found me.”

One of Louis’ hands finds its way to his exposed ankle, his thumb softly stroking his skin. “Why’d you do it at your parents’ house?”

The world is a little blurrier as Harry’s eyes fill with tears. “It’s stupid, but… If I’d done it here, it would’ve been weeks before anybody found me. The thought was haunting me. But now my mum’s convinced I hate her. She thinks I did it just to hurt her, she doesn’t believe a word I say.”

“Know what? If no one’s told you yet, I’ll do it. I’m glad you’re alive. I’m sure there’s nothing harder than getting on with your life after this. I’m proud of you for being here.”

For a few sweet seconds, Harry allows himself to believe him. His words touch him, soothing his soul like nothing ever did. He needed to hear them. But he also knows that Louis’ place isn’t here. He’ll leave eventually, he’ll take his warmth and the strange familiarity he’d brought along with him and he’ll _leave_. He and Louis were never meant to end up together, Louis was always just passing through, only ever appeared at the turning points of his life, painting his world in bright, lively colors for a brief and vivid moment, always in the summer, as it happens. But there wasn’t ever anything permanent about Louis. The dread that comes with this thought is paralyzing, and Harry honestly just wants to go to bed. He tells him so, and Louis doesn’t object, he just insists on taking the couch.

*

It’s almost ten o’clock in the morning when Harry opens his eyes. Last night’s events resurface along with the permanent heaviness in his chest he’s used to carrying all day long. After waking up, he can usually enjoy one or two seconds of utter bliss and peace; a short period of time where he doesn’t remember anything, doesn’t know where or who he is. Now, everything’s settled in. He lies on his stomach, one arm dangling off the bed, fingers grazing the floorboards, staring off into the room. He’ll have to face him again today. It’s disturbing how clearly Louis has been able to read him, how he’s figured him out so bluntly, better than his mum, sister, best friend, and therapist combined. Louis has seen right through him, has pointed out his desperation to be someone he isn’t, his stark disdain for childhood and adolescence, and his obsession with this glamorized idea of adulthood. He’d felt downright _naked_ under his stare. The worst thing is that he didn’t completely hate it.

When he finally brings himself to get out of bed, he realizes he’s alone in the apartment. He shuffles out of his room quietly; no one. The sofa’s back to its initial upright position. Louis’ belongings are nowhere to be seen, there’s no trace of him whatsoever. It’s like he’s never even been here.

If a few days ago the place seemed appallingly empty, now that Louis’ gone, words aren’t even enough to describe it anymore. Harry misses the time he couldn’t feel a thing. This morning, his chest feels unbearably tight and his heart is up his throat, teetering at the edge of his lips, he wishes he could just throw it up and away. A furious desire to smash everything courses through his veins. He stops himself when he notices the dark green sweatshirt Louis was wearing the day before, laying against the little heater in the corner. He walks up to it, holds it up to his face, and buries his nose into it, inhaling the disappointingly impersonal smell of laundry. Why Louis’ clothes never smelled like him he never understood.

Just as he starts to think Louis has left for good, the door opens and he walks in, with a brown paper bag in his hands and a tall, fresh, and crispy-looking baguette wedged under his arm. Harry is on the verge of tears.

“Hey,” Louis says, his initial excitement fading down to visible concern. “You all right? I’ve gone out to get breakfast. You’ve got truly suspicious stuff in your kitchen.”

Harry lets out a soft, barely audible sigh as Louis puts everything down onto the little coffee table.

“I thought you’d left,” he admits, feebly.

“Why would you think that?” it sounded less like a question and more like an accusation. He doesn’t dwell on it and takes a few steps, stopping right in front of him. It’s still hard to grasp how tall Harry’s gotten. He brings a hand up to his face, cupping his cheek, just as he used to do. “ _Je suis là_ – I’m here. I haven’t left.”

Right then, and with the yearning Louis’ touch awakens in him, Harry feels like he’s fourteen again. All feverish, consumed with a thousand and one desires, brave and reckless enough to satisfy them; he leans in and finally allows his lips to find Louis’ again. He drops the sweatshirt on a chair, framing Louis’ face in his hands. Louis kisses him right back. They run their hands all over each other, burning everything with their touch. It’s greedy, passionate, and fiery, and Harry feels like he’s taking something that had always belonged to him. Louis hooks an arm around his neck, pulling him in and deepening the kiss. After a moment, they pull apart just slightly, still breathing into each other’s mouths, their lips barely touching. “Please,” Harry begs softly.

Louis understands; he slots their lips together, blindly guiding both of them backwards toward the little room. On their way, he nearly loses his balance twice, colliding with furniture and wall corners. Harry would’ve laughed, but he wants this so badly he just closes his fingers over the fabric of Louis’ shirt and pulls him into the room.

Louis takes the lead, pulling Harry’s shirt over his head and fumbling with the tightly-knit drawstrings of his sweatpants. He looks at him, noting how glazed over with need his eyes became, and he can’t resist the call of his lips, so plush and silky against his own. He kisses him softly, a jarring contrast to how fierce this whole thing had been until now. He instructs him to lie down on his bed and finishes undressing him. He stops to take it all in, admiring his body in all its splendor; skin as pale as the second summer’s milk, little ringlets of hair already sticking to his forehead, and pink cheeks, burning to the touch. He goes to straddle him speechlessly, and pulls his own shirt over his head, feeling a light breeze fanning across his own overheated skin. He leans in to seal their lips back together, kissing him hard and holding his jaw open so he could lick at the roof of his mouth. Harry kisses back just as eagerly, pulling at Louis’ hair to keep their bodies impossibly close, not caring how messy and chaotic this was becoming. Louis feels a string of arousal pull through him as Harry moans into his mouth. In between kisses, Louis whispers, “Got any condoms?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Drawer. By the bed.”

Louis keeps the information at the back of his head, knowing they won’t have to use them right now. His lips find their way back to his skin, mouthing along his jaw and letting them glide down to his neck to suck a small bruise. On his way down he peppers his skin with feverish little kisses, traveling along his body and retracing the lines and curves and learning them by heart. He traces his tongue along the trail of fine wiry hairs under his belly button. “So fucking beautiful.”

Harry just squirms in response, fingers buried in Louis’ hair. He pulls at it softly, like a silent warning. He remembers so clearly how it had all gone down, a few summers ago. But Louis pays it no mind. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against his skin. He would never grow tired of that word rolling off his tongue and into Harry’s ears.

“Please, don’t…”

Louis moves down to kiss the smooth, pale skin inside of his thighs, spreading them apart with his hands. “It’s true,” he says, soft breath fanning out across his skin. “It’s always been true… Thought so from the start… from the second I saw you… on that beach, Harry…blew me the fuck away, you did… you’re so beautiful it’s unreal… Wish you could see for yourself.”

Harry bites at the inside of his cheeks, swallowing the tears back down. He can’t cry, not now. He wants him; so badly, and he’s wanted him for so long, but he’s not sure he could ever let him love him without being convinced he didn’t deserve any of it.

He chokes on a small gasp as Louis places a tentative kiss at the base of his cock, working his way up to his head to circle his tongue around it, lingering there and tasting him with no modesty, and without the slightest greed – he’s being oddly prudent about it, as though he was savoring something divine and forbidden. He kisses it one last time before going back up, hovering over his body, one arm holding his weight. He presses a reassuring kiss on his lips and pulls back, delving into his eyes. It’s a shade of green he never managed to forget. A rich hue he’d looked for in other people, but could never find. “What do you want to do, lovely?”

“Want you to fuck me.”

Louis curses softly under his breath, and as if to assert his words and to make sure he understood properly, Harry takes his hand and kisses his fingers, sticking two of them past his lips.

The love is sweet. It’s mild and peaceful for the most part; quiet too, save from the occasional long sighs, faint moans, and whispered sweet nothings that get lost in the tangled sheets, warmed by the sun. They get lost in each other, unsure of where one another started and ended. Time comes to a still again. Harry’s not sure he’s ever experienced something like this. It all seems so delusive, like he could wake up any second, alone in the midst of his messy sheets, his overheated body covered in sweat, and a rather sticky mess in his underwear. None of the boys he’s been in bed with had ever made him feel so whole and content. He can’t stop sighing, so pathetically desperate for more, always more. If Louis didn’t know any better, he would’ve probably asked him if this was his first time.

They stay in bed after it all comes down, hazy and warm; the sun is high in the sky, beaming upon the old zinc roofs of the city and into his little room; the golden glow of their childhood, highlighting the faint freckles across Louis’ cheeks. They’ve shoved the sheets off the bed and they’re cuddling bare, bodies intertwined, skin to skin, arms and legs entangled with no barriers and no way to hide. Harry caresses his foot with his own, staring down at him. For a moment it looks like Louis’ fallen asleep in his arms. He can still feel Louis’ cock against his own thigh, soft and spent, he wishes he never had to move again. From this angle, he can look down and see how his back curves and dips just before the swell of his arse. His entire body reminds him of those Greek statues in the museum’s classical collection, the ones people can hardly believe that they were carved in stone, for the details and curves could fool anyone into thinking they’re blood and flesh. He finds it hard to believe such a marvelous beast was resting in his arms. He buries his lips in his hair, it tickles his face a little. He moves to his left ear, mouthing at the diamond earring that reflects the sun when it hits it just right. “When did _that_ happen?” he whispers, not daring to disturb the peace in which they reveled up until now.

Louis opens his eyes. “Three years ago,” he says, his voice weirdly light. “Pierced it myself, as a matter of fact. Just gritted my teeth and punched the needle through it, it hurt like a bitch.”

Harry lets out a soft breath of laughter, “Why’d you do it?”

“Don’t know. Felt like it. Thought it’d look cool. I actually stole the earring from Charlotte, never gave it back.”

“You did it yourself, it could’ve gotten infected,” he points out, visibly amused but still with a hint of concern.

“It did get infected. My boyfriend at the time… He made me believe they’d have to cut it off. I’d already gone through all the stages of grief before he told me he was just joking.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I am. But you like the earring, don’t you?” he asks, shifting to be able to look at him. He’s already grinning, he knows the answer.

Harry looks down at him tenderly, his chin digging into his own collarbones, “I do. Very much so. It suits you.”

“Turns you on, doesn’t it?”

Harry starts laughing, and Louis places his ear against his chest, just listening to the vibrations, his lips stretched thin. “You know what? Yes, absolutely. Saw that diamond before I even saw you.”

“So, I should just leave it with you and fuck off, is that it?” Louis asks jokingly, chuckling along with him.

“Let’s do that. You know where the door is.”

“Could I just stay a while longer? Not ready to go home yet.”

Right now, time is just an absurd construct they couldn’t care less about. Outside, the world keeps revolving, moving at an unimaginably fast pace. Just a few stories below, rows of cars are flying by, busy, tight-lipped people rushing along the narrow sidewalks, train doors opening and closing relentlessly. The room is an island of tranquillity in the midst of an agitated ocean.

Louis gets up with quite a bit of hardship, strutting around the room in the nude to stretch his limbs before heading out. Soon enough he comes back with a tray full of food. They eat naked on the bed, dropping bread crumbs everywhere. Throughout the day, they talk and discuss and dream aloud, find each other and cuddle and kiss in the warmth of the bed they never leave. They drink a questionable pinot noir Louis had picked up at the store that morning. Right by the dead plant, Harry’s little radio set is placed atop his shelf, set on the _Radio Nostalgie_ channel. Louis swooshes the remainder of his drink around in the tall wine glass he’s holding by the foot when the damned lyrics fill the room with the haunted voices of his past.

 _C’est un endroit, qui ressemble à la Louisianne…_ _À l’Italie…_

He stills, and Harry shoots a hesitant look at him. His face is hard and unreadable, but he’s learned enough about him to know that there was more than meets the eye. Harry reaches for the radio and turns it off in one smooth gesture, his eyes never leaving him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You must miss her terribly.”

Louis doesn’t respond, instead, he brings his glass to his lips, tilting it back and downing the rest in one gulp.

“I miss her too,” Harry adds. “She was better than anyone I’ve ever known. I always think of her whenever I hear this song.”

When Louis stays quiet, Harry reaches his hand out, stroking his knuckles against his cheek, gliding along his protruding cheekbones. “Just hate getting reminded of it, is all,” he mutters, his voice full of scorn.

Harry scoots over, tilting his head. “Don’t you live in the house… It must be terrible.”

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” he says, turning to face him; there’s a soft glow around Harry’s insanely long, disheveled hair, he looks like an angel, and his heart just melts at the sight. “The good thing is that she’s always there. But that’s the worst thing too. Sometimes I think if I stay any longer, I might just lose my mind.”

When night falls, they make love again. Louis had dreamt of this moment, it’d entertained his wildest fantasies, even back when they were younger. And now, he has the real thing right in front of him; Harry’s head between his legs, his pink, plush lips stretched thin around him. He pulls gently at the roots of his hair. He could have honestly cried about it. His thumb traces over his lips, as he did a thousand times before.

Harry’s mouth works skilfully around him, tongue lapping at the underside of his cock, savoring him like a treat before taking him deep inside his throat, barely breathing through the whole process. He even allows Louis to fuck his mouth, the both of them chasing their own pleasure; Harry’s hand has disappeared underneath his own body, somewhere between his legs. He only chokes once as tears start pooling in his eyes, and Louis pulls out to give him time to breathe before feeding it back to him; he takes him down again, just as eagerly. Soon, Louis comes down his throat with a groan, his bottom lip pulled behind his front teeth, fingers clenching around a thick handful of the spectacular mess of curls.

Harry releases him from his mouth, making a show of swallowing down and licking his lips to collect what’s spilled out. He delves back to clean him up, suckling at his sensitive head as if he was coming back for seconds. He loses interest in Louis’ gradually softening cock and litters the inside of his thighs with butterfly kisses, sucking a bruise here and there, leaving wet patches on his path.

After he’s come back to his senses, Louis watches him endearingly, propped up on the bed with his elbow digging into the mattress, his eyebrows furrowed in question but his eyes filled with immeasurable tenderness for the boy. Harry rests his head against one of Louis’ thighs, eyes shut, his lips just a few millimeters shy of his spent cock. He doesn’t move, and Louis strokes his hair lovingly.

“Don't want you to leave,” he begs, softly. “I don't want to be alone.”

Louis’ frown deepens as he sits up slowly. Harry’s cheek is warm against his thigh. “Oh, you’ve got me here for all the wrong reasons, babe…”

“I’d do anything,” he insists, weakly. “Just don’t want to be alone.”

It was heartbreaking to witness. He wishes he didn’t have to go back home, but for a little over a year, he no longer had the luxury of making his own choices. “You know I can’t, lovely.”

Harry doesn’t respond, wallowing in his resignation. After a while, his lips accidentally brush against Louis’ cock, stirring it awake. He mouths along the shaft and presses a single kiss on the head, but he doesn’t take him down in his mouth. Instead, he just brushes his cheek against it, feeling its warmth and wishing he could somehow get him to stay.

Later that night, Louis hops in the shower and gets dressed, slipping into a pair of jogger pants and putting on one of Harry’s old t-shirts – it’s too big on him but Harry won’t comment. He leaves to go buy cigarettes at the nearest corner store. Harry isn’t too worried; all of Louis' belongings are still strewn about his room. He makes the best of this time and washes up too, helping himself to a few bites of the previous day’s remaining food. He steps outside on his little balcony overlooking the street, a simple towel wrapped around his waist, his hair still dripping wet, and a chilly breeze blowing across his lukewarm skin. His neck is littered with little bruises. He leans over the railing to watch the corner of the street, letting his mind drift to somber places. The possibility of him not coming back was a very real one, he’d experienced it once with somebody else.

Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes go by. He’s shivering now, growing concern lacing and tightening his throat. He can’t even call him; he’s left his phone in the room.

It's not long after he's worked himself up into a panic that Louis appears, popping around the corner with a bag in his hand, struggling to light his cigarette with the force of the wind blowing. He lingers downstairs for a while, puffing away distractedly. He stubs it out with his heel before heading back in. Harry greets him with a simple kiss on the cheek. He’s bought some snacks for the girls, he says, he couldn’t find those back home.

Together in the kitchen, they whip something up quickly and they have dinner around the little table. Harry suggested his own twist on the Lo Mein, swapping the meat for extra veggies. Louis’ skeptical at first, but as he swirls his fork around the noodles and brings it to his mouth, he’s pleasantly surprised. The white wine and the Sriracha together create a burst of flavor upon his tongue. “Wish I could hire you as a cook,” he says, his mouth still full. “I eat like shit back home… and the babies too, God. I just make pasta everyday… Fucking… frozen meals and stuff. I feel bad for them. Maman would kill me if she knew what I gave them on the daily.”

Harry’s lips just curl into a faint, defeated smile, and he keeps on eating. They don’t talk much; Louis’ mouth is always full anyway. Underneath the table, his foot nudges against Harry’s and he just keeps it there. Harry doesn’t react, stabbing his fork into the remaining bits of bell peppers, but Louis’ subtle grin doesn’t go unnoticed. He strokes Harry’s foot with his own, dragging it up his bare calve, tantalizingly slow. Harry finally looks up to meet his playful eyes.

“You okay?” Louis asks, pausing his movements.

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you finish your plate while I do the dishes… And we can take this to your room. What do you say?”

“Mh-hm,” he nods as Louis gets up to wash all the plates, knives, pans, and cutting boards they’ve used. Normally, Harry would’ve objected, would’ve done the dishes himself and sent Louis off to watch TV while he finishes or something like that. Now he just stares at the bottom of his empty plate, the sauce stains staring back at him.

“You done, lovely?” He calls out, looking over his shoulder.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?” he says, flat-toned. He didn’t even mean to sound this cynical, but he can’t help it. He hates this situation, hates how needy and lonely and pathetic he sounds because deep down, there’s this well-aware, rational part of him that knows and understands why things are the way they are. But it’s always stifled underneath the whiny, immature child he never really ceased to be.

Louis frowns, rinsing the last plate and placing it in the rack to dry. “That was the plan all along, babe, wasn’t it? Got work on Monday. And besides, we’ve still got time. I’ll catch some train late in the afternoon.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Thanks for doing the dishes. Would’ve probably left them there to rot ‘til morning.”

“I figured.”

*

It’s two in the morning and they’re both still awake. The fairy lights cast a dim glow in the room. They’re sitting side by side against the bedpost, smoking away. The window’s wide open, airing it out.

Louis takes a long drag, feeling the smoke burning his throat and lungs. “Have you always lived here alone? I mean before your mum came.”

Harry leans his head against Louis’ naked shoulder, eyes droopy with sleep, the remaining half of his cigarette wedged between his fingers, slowly consuming itself. “No,” he whispers. Louis wraps an arm around him, pulling him even closer. “I had a roommate. His name was Charlie.”

“Charlie,” Louis repeats. “I know who Charlie is. Your little friend isn’t he.”

“My best friend.”

It all clicks for Louis. He recalls their conversation from the previous day. He holds his breath for a second, and exhales slowly, releasing a faint cloud of smoke. “I’m sorry,” he says, fingers caressing the soft skin of his shoulder.

“It was an accident. And that’s the worst thing, I think. It was all so sudden. He’s here one day, gone the next. It didn’t fully hit me until one or two days after he died. And then I had no one left.”

Louis tilts his head, placing a soft kiss upon his forehead. “So you’ve never truly been alone, have you.” Harry would’ve cringed at the words. The same words Anne had thrown at him before she stormed out of his flat a week ago. But there’s something so kind and tender about the way he’d said them. He felt understood, for the first time in a while now. “Is that why you’re so scared?”

“I don’t want to hold you back,” he says, staring up at him. “I know I can manage. It just… it just feels good to have someone to talk to and keep me company.”

“We’ve done more than just talk, as far as I’m concerned,” he remarks with a smirk; Harry kisses it off of his lips.

“I’d like to come with you to the train station tomorrow.”

“Fine by me. Want you to be there too.”

Harry extinguishes his cigarette in the ashtray in the middle of the bed. “Will I see you again?”

“If you’ll have me… I’d love to.”

*

Harry makes breakfast for him the next morning, arranging it on a tray to bring back to the room. Louis’ just woken up, still buried under the covers, his head barely peeking out. He opens an eye, shooting a lazy, grateful smile at Harry.

“Bonjour,” Harry says, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

“Salut, toi.”

“Hungry?”

“A little,” he trails off with a yawn, stretching his limbs until his legs start cramping. He sits up, ruffling his hair, and wiping the sleep off of his eyes. “What’ve you got there?”

“It’s all for you,” he says, nodding at the tray. “Stuff I don’t eat. The freshest baguette there is,” he says, and Louis smiles wide. “Croissants, pains au chocolat, tout ce que tu veux – anything you want.”

Louis just smiles, staring incredulously back and forth between him and the tray. “That’s lovely. Thank you so much,” Harry hands him the tray and Louis positions it on his lap. “Have you eaten yet?” He asks, using a knife to cut through the baguette he’d torn in half.

“Mh-hm” he replies, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. “I’ve had a black bean burrito with sweet potatoes.”

“Jesus,” he exclaims, his mouth already full of flakey pastry. “Since when have you been up?”

“Six,” he says, sliding back on the mattress until his back meets the headboard. “Did some laundry too.”

Louis spreads a thin layer of butter on his bread. “Got anything to drink?” he asks, a short, knowing glimpse directed at him.

“I’ve got oat milk,” he says. “Vanilla flavored. Want a taste?”

“No!” he looks at him, bright blue eyes all shiny under the morning sun – he can’t stop smiling, and it makes him look five years younger. “I’ve tried it once, all right, just to see if it was worth the hassle. I threw up. That should tell you how I feel about it.”

“But it’s vanilla flavored,” Harry insists, batting his eyelashes at him as if that tiny detail could somehow change his mind. “I can _make_ you try,” he suggests with a quirked eyebrow. And Louis can’t resist.

“Fine… I won’t like it, though.”

Harry springs out of bed, all giddy, and Louis watches in fascination as he leaves the room only to come back a few seconds later with a glass full of milk and the devil’s smile on his lips. Louis sets the tray aside and lies down, his head propped on two thick pillows as Harry takes a long sip. He waits for him, lips slightly parted and something familiar coiling in his stomach. Harry leans over him, steadily transferring the milk from his mouth directly into Louis’, who wastes no time and swallows it down. He slides a hand behind Harry’s neck, feeling the soft hairs against his fingertips before closing the distance between their lips in a harsh, bruising kiss.

“Thoughts?” Harry breaks them apart, swinging one leg over Louis’ lap to straddle him. There’s that peculiar twinkle in his eyes that Louis doesn’t wish to extinguish right away, but he owes it to himself to be honest.

“Horrendous,” he whispers. “Your lips taste good, though. And look what you’ve done,” he tilts his head to point at his own crotch, where Harry can see how hard he’s gotten.

“Need help with that?”

*

They’re still in bed at four. Harry had found his rightful place in Louis’ arms, his head resting against his bare chest, fingers intertwined. His hair glimmers under the light, all scattered across Louis’ golden skin, eyelids closed, long eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. If he listens carefully, he can hear Louis’ heart drumming against his ribcage. “This was nice,” Harry says, without any particular motive. He just felt like stating it. “The weekend, I mean.”

“It _was_ good. A whole weekend in Paris, room and board included. Hardly even left the room in question.”

Harry giggles softly against his chest, “Shut up.”

“Your drive is out of this world, babe… I'm exhausted. I’ve never had sex that many times in a single day, how do you…”

“Stop it…”

“ _Putain_ …” he laughs too, throwing his head back against the pillow, exposing his neck littered with red and purples bruises Harry had sucked. “Take me out next time, yeah?”

“Whatever you want.”

Louis hooks an arm around Harry’s back, “All jokes aside… This was really nice. We needed this. D’you know why I like it here?”

“No. Tell me.”

“See, Paris is big. It’s huge. You can be whoever you want to be, and no one will care, no one will ever tell you who you should or should not be… Never had anyone all up in my business like they were back home. I feel… small. Totally insignificant. It’s a weird feeling, but I like it. Don’t you feel the same way?”

Harry pauses to think it through. He does like the anonymity, but it isn’t like Paris is such a drastic change from Bordeaux. He likes how he can walk around the city hand in hand with a man, and no one would even bat an eye. He likes how this new life has practically forced him to be independent—he’s still working on that bit, but he owes a lot of his progress to the lifestyle he’s had to undertake. “I feel you. This is the first place where I’ve ever felt free… Would you… Would you ever consider moving back here?” he asks, aiming to sound detached but ultimately hoping to get his point across.

“I’d love to… Don’t think it’ll happen anytime soon, though. Maybe when the kids are old enough, but… Haven’t given it much thought since my mum… Yeah.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Harry’s getting sleepy – after all, he’s only gotten a few hours of sleep. He lets out a quiet yawn as Louis runs his fingers up and down his spine. “You tired babe? I should go.”

Harry whines in protest, a hint petulant, tightening his grip around Louis’ warm body. “Stay a bit. Trains are running ‘til late at night.”

“Can’t, lovely, it’s like a four-hour ride. But hey… we’ll talk, yeah? I won’t forget about you. I’ll call you.”

“You said that last time. What’s so different now…”

“We’ve grown up, haven’t we? Haven’t got anyone on my back now. Neither do you.”

“How can I be sure?”

“Dunno, trust me? I’d like to give it a go. To give _us_ a go. Would you like that?” he coaxes, stroking his cheek with the side of his thumb.

“Mh-hm.”

“Mh-hm, as in… yes?”

“Yes,” he confirms, a face-splitting smile taking over his drowsy features.

Louis brings their laced fingers up to his mouth and presses a kiss to Harry’s hand. “Got to go now.” He blindly reaches for the ground, retrieving his dark green sweatshirt, the one he wore when he arrived. “Want to keep this?”

Harry only smiles in response.

*

On their way to Gare de Lyon, Harry doesn’t talk much, as usual, he just sticks by his side and tries to pretend like they aren’t going to be separated in just a few moments. He buys him food to go, in one of the Gare’s little shops, and at the cash register Louis thanks him with a chaste little kiss on the cheek.

It’s a couple of minutes before departure; they’re waiting on the platform for the Besançon-Viotte TGV. A stream of travelers flows around them, pulling suitcases along with whiny children. A woman’s voice announces the next departures and Harry feels a tightening in his chest. He doesn’t want to say goodbye. He brings himself to look him in the eye, taking him in, and wishing time would just stop. But on the station’s famous clock, the hands keep turning.

“You’re not alone,” Louis says. “Okay?”

He just nods in response and Louis pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. He’s on his tiptoes, his face buried in Harry’s neck just breathing him in. Louis wishes he wasn’t so completely engrossed in his smell – fresh laundry and faint cologne, woven with something that was so unequivocally _Harry_ and that he could not explain, for the life of him. He’s almost certain he can feel his heart beating against his own.

If Harry ever asked him, _‘Why me?’_

Louis would say, _‘Because you’ve got too much love to give and it’s out of place. Because I get to taste it more than you do. Because I know you, because you know me. Because you’re a piece of the life I had and that I’ll never have again. Because you’re beautiful. Because you’re beautiful. Because you’re beautiful.’_

They break apart without a word. Harry reluctantly lets him go, watching as he climbs on board and disappears inside the train. He stands alone on the nearly empty platform, his heart buzzing with newfound hope. 


	4. The First Winter

The thousand colours and the sweltering heat of the summer fade away and give way to a warm and rather short autumn. Then winter settles silently in the capital.

At the beginning of December, inside a small rustic café in the 5th, Harry is sitting alone at the table, near the window overlooking la rue des Fossés-Saint-Jacques. He's only been there about ten minutes, his laptop open and his notebooks scattered around him. His phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and smiles as he sees who it’s from.

**From: Lou**

_bb are you busy? can I call you?_

**To: Lou**

_I’m studying. Something wrong?_

**From: Lou**

_no, don’t worry. just want to hear your voice_

**To: Lou**

_Call me then, I can take a break._

They bring him his order – a steaming cup of matcha latte – as he sends his last message to him. He leaves his drink aside for the moment. His phone starts ringing and he picks up.

“Allô?”

“Hey. Missed me?”

Harry can’t contain his smile. “Not really. No. We spoke last night, I haven’t really had time to miss you.”

“Fair enough. How are you?”

“I’m… I’m okay.”

“You smiling? I can hear you smile through the phone. Are you smiling?”

“Yes, I am…” he says, and forces himself to stop grinning so much. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

“Actually, yes. Are you going back to Bordeaux for Christmas?”

“No, I don’t think so. I thought I’d stay home this year.”

"Not happening. Come over for the holidays. We'd love to have you here."

“Oh. That’s nice of you. I’ll… I think I’ll have to see.”

“Please? I miss you. Just want to see you. Think about it, yeah?”

“I will. I miss you too. So much.”

“Shall I call you tonight?”

“Sure. If you can.”

“Talk to you later then, I’ll let you study. Love you, take care.”

“Love you too.”

He hangs up, pressing the edge of his phone against his chin, staring off into the distance. It’s started snowing outside in the meantime. The thin snowflakes melt the moment they touch the ground.

He’d love nothing else than to take him up on his invite. The mere idea of spending even a handful of days with Louis makes his heart race. They’ve had so few opportunities to see each other since the summer ended. Twice in September and once in mid-November. And every time, it was Louis who came to Paris for the weekend. And every time, the separation was harder.

They talk on the phone almost every day; Harry looks forward to these moments so much that when he finally hears his voice after a long day of school or work, he almost tears up. He likes to put him on speaker while cooking dinner. It’s like he’s right there with him. And at night, it isn’t rare for him to fall asleep on the phone, Louis’ green hoodie pressed up against him. They’ve grown closer, confided in each other, told each other everything, and it seemed like they wanted to make up for all the time they had lost.

Still, Harry isn’t fooled. He knows that Louis isn’t and frankly never would be the miracle solution to his situation. He still has bad days. Sometimes he doesn’t leave his bed, doesn’t eat anything, doesn’t move, and ignores everyone’s calls and messages.

And still, Louis understands. He understands the same way Charlie understood, and Harry couldn’t have asked for a better partner.

He considers accepting, considers just saying “ _Yes, of course I want to spend Christmas with you_ ”.

But then there’s his mother. He hasn't spoken to Anne since she stormed out of his apartment in August. He talks to Gemma, and Robin sometimes, and he gathers that's how she makes sure he's still alive. He’s not sure if he's ready to face her, to go home, apologize, deal with it all.

In his phone is a note in which, as the days go by, he writes, rewrites, erases and rephrases what he wants to tell her. For a while now, he’s meant to send her a message as soon as he’s satisfied with the text. For now, he’s not.

His decision is quickly made.

*

It’s a few days before Christmas. The 10 o’clock train slows down, grinding to a halt when it reaches the Poligny station. It’s nothing fancy; the rails cross a platform near a building that looks more like one of the village houses than anything else. Hanging from a concrete wall, a blue sign half-covered in snow indicates the name of the station.

Harry picks up his luggage and steps down onto the platform. His shoes are evidently not made for snow; water’s already seeping in. He finds Louis waiting, leaning against the wall with his phone in hand. His hair is a little damp, carelessly pushed back, and he’s dressed in old sweatpants and his signature grey jumper, zipper up to his chin. His face lights up as soon as he sees Harry on the platform. He pockets his phone and walks up to him, eyes twinkling with excitement. Without wasting time, he frames his face with his hand and kisses him. Not far from them, near the edge of the platform, two local elderly men stare them down in disdain, thankfully they refrain from commenting.

They pull apart after what seems like an eternity. Louis hasn’t stopped smiling since, and he knows for a fact that the pink hue Harry’s cheeks have taken aren’t only due to the cold. He takes him in, speechless at first. Underneath Harry’s cap, his hair’s noticeably shorter; tiny curls escaping from the sides.

“You’ve chopped it all off?” is the first thing he manages to say to him.

“I have.”

“When did that happen?”

“A week ago, I think?” he whispers, placing his hands on either side of Louis’ waist.

“You didn’t even tell me.”

“You like it?”

“Well, let’s see, then. I don’t know what you look like! No pictures, no ‘I’m getting a haircut’ text, nothing.”

Harry just smiles and takes his hat off, running his fingers through his hair to try and fix it somehow. Louis just stares.

“I love it,” he says after a beat. “You look good no matter what, so.”

“Thanks,” he says, and he can’t help but blush a little.

“Are you ever going to bring the bandanas back?”

“Maybe someday.”

“Good,” he leans in for another quick kiss, and takes his hand. “Now let’s go and get you warmed up. They can’t wait to see you.”

They exit the station hand in hand as Louis gets the car keys from his pockets. They settle in, and Louis stifles a yawn before putting the key in the ignition.

“Tired?”

“Haven’t gotten much sleep last night,” Louis says, truthfully. “Was too excited.”

Harry doesn’t say anything to that, but he thinks he might just die from how much he loves him, right there and then. “I brought gifts for the girls. And for Ernest too. Haven’t forgotten him.”

Louis starts the car, pulling out of the parking lot and into the road. “Oh, you did? You really didn’t have to. They’ve a shit ton of presents waiting for them already.”

“It’s no trouble. Honestly. ‘S the least I can do, I think. It’s so nice of you to have me over for the holidays.”

“That’s sweet,” he says, and smiles at him. “Thank you… It means a lot. And you’re welcome home. You’ll see. They’re all so excited.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence filled with the reassuring hum of the engine, punctuated by the tiny jolts of the paved roads. Harry allows himself to look at him after a few minutes. For some reason, his heart tightens at the sight. Louis looks lost in thought – he doesn’t even notice him. He looks a lot older than the last time he saw him. There was a time he would’ve found it just fascinating; now he’s concerned more than anything else.

The sound of the blinker announces that they’re just about to turn into a tiny alley. They’re here. For the first time in five years, he sees the house again. And in the winter, everything is different. All the wild and fiery colors of summer are muffled underneath a thick white blanket. The silence is deafening. Louis’ looking out the window on his side, one hand still gripping the steering wheel.

“You okay?” Harry asks gently.

“Oh, yeah,” he says with a smile that looks disappointingly put-up. “Yeah. Come on. Let me just,” he bends down and pushes a button to open the trunk. “I’ll get your bags, don’t worry about it.”

Inside, the greetings seem to last for hours. Harry says hello to everyone, and he finds it hard to believe that they've all grown so much. The girls are practically women now, and the little ones aren't so little anymore. They greet him out of politeness, but they don't really seem to remember him. He says hi to Dan, who looks just delighted to see him again. His handshake is firm, and he tells him just how amazed he is at how much he’s grown. He learns that he’s all Louis talks about, day in day out. It warms his heart to realize just how welcome he is. But no matter how warmly he’s greeted, no matter how much they smile and laugh and joke around with him, he still feels like there’s something crucial missing from this house.

It isn’t taboo or anything. There are pictures of her on the walls and she’s mentioned _all the time._

But as he recalls his holiday, back when he was fifteen, her kindness and the immeasurable love she had for her children, he can’t bring himself to be entirely at ease.

At lunch, everyone gathers around the large dining room table. Unsurprisingly, it’s very loud and animated and full of life – the girls have just returned from Geneva the previous day and had to do a lot of catching up with the youngest. Daisy, Phoebe, and the little twins fight over who gets to tell them all about their lives first, and they all end up speaking over each other. Harry finds it terribly endearing; he listens to them with great fondness.

He also learns from Dan that the house has been up for sale for a while now, that they’ve found a buyer and that they were going to move to Paris at the beginning of the coming year. They’ve all wished to spend one last Christmas in the house.

“It’s for the kids, mainly,” Charlotte explains while refilling Harry’s plate. “If we move to Paris, Dan won’t have to travel as much. He’ll get to be with them more often. And… well, I guess it’s for Louis as well. Should help him get on with his life. It’ll just be better for him and everybody else.”

Unless Harry’s eyes are deceiving him, Louis looks like he’s shut down completely. In fact, ever since the house was mentioned, he hasn’t said a word. He just keeps on eating quietly, his eyes fixated on his own plate. Even Harry’s hand on his knee under the table can’t get him to react.

A little before bedtime, they find themselves alone in Louis' room. Harry’s kneeling on the floor, his suitcase wide open as he shows him all the presents he’s brought for everyone. Louis just stares blankly, putting up a smile once in a while. He’s on the bed, lying on his stomach, the side of his face resting against a cushion, eyes glimmering under the dim light. It takes Harry a while to make sense of this particular expression, but when he does, he wastes no time dropping everything and climbing on the bed with him. He lies down by his side, he takes one of Louis’ hands between his own, searching for his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to leave,” he just says, truthfully, his voice laced with pain. “I don’t want him to sell the house. I just… I don’t want to have to leave this all behind. I know it sounds selfish ‘cause Charlotte’s right, Paris will be good for the kids but… I just don’t know. I hate thinking about it. Hate being reminded of it.”

He goes on then, explaining to him, with a tight throat, that the only reason he’s so attached to this place is that he feels like his mother’s still there, everywhere he looks. He admits that he might well have continued his studies in Paris, that Dan would’ve more than likely found a way to manage with the kids, that it was actually his own decision; he chose to move back here. Harry’s heart sinks when he learns that he still slept in his mother’s bed, alone, almost every night. The first few days after she passed, he wouldn’t even leave the room.

“I still needed her,” he whispers. “We all did. So fucking much.”

As it happens, Harry’s one of the few people who can understand just how much she meant to him. And all night long he holds him tight and tries his best to comfort him, tells him life might just pass him by if he spends the rest of his days living like this. You should know this, he says to him, we’ve both grown up too fast.

“Whether you’re here… or anywhere else really, she’ll always be there with you, won’t she?” he whispers, his hand pressed against Louis’ heart. “You know that. I remember she used to say… She knew this life wasn’t for you. She wanted you to go out there and see the world… She wanted you to live, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” he croaks, “I know.”

“You were happy in Paris, weren’t you?”

“I was… I really was.”

“So. What do you think she’d say?”

To that, Louis doesn’t reply. He only lets out a weak, shaky sigh. Outside, the wind is whistling through the window. “I just…” he whispers, looking up at the night sky as Harry runs his fingers through his hair, slow and soothing. “I’ll never see another summer in this house.”

*

Christmas at their house is remarkably heartwarming. Harry doesn't know exactly what he expected, but he’s rather pleasantly surprised to see the whole family so happy and united that day. The little ones make fun of Louis, who’s just turned twenty-three. They call him _old man_ and ask him to tell them about the war and the dinosaurs. The mountain of gifts under the tree quickly turns into an ocean of wrapping paper and cardboard boxes, overflowing the living room.

And in the midst of all this sweetness and good cheer, Harry finally finds the strength to send a message to his mother. Before he has time to reconsider, his fingers have already typed in “Joyeux Noël, Maman”, and they’ve hit send. He leaves his phone aside to help Ernest put the batteries in his new toys. Soon Louis joins them on the couch, hugging him from behind, his arms wrapped tightly around him. He nestles his chin against his shoulder, stealing a quick kiss on Harry’s cheek before whispering in his ear: “Thank you for everything. Thank you for the presents, and thank you for being here.”

Harry turns his head just slightly, pecks him on the lips, and then leans back against his chest just a little. A little further on, by the tree, Doris is still unwrapping her last present. She looks up at them, inquisitively. It’s the first time she’s seen them being intimate with each other. Charlotte is already tidying up the place, gathering all the torn wrapping paper and bits and pieces of cardboard and plastic. Once in a while, she looks over at the boys, biting her cheeks and holding back a smile, side glancing at Félicité. Louis notices them soon enough.

“What is it?” he asks, breaking into a smile as soon as she does.

“Nothing,” Charlotte exclaims. “I was just… I was just thinking about Spain, you know. It’s funny. You really were a pain in everyone’s arse, is the thing,” she explains, and Félicité chuckles softly. “Right? I mean, you could’ve just told us. Could’ve just admitted you fancied him at the time. We’d have helped you win his heart and all, isn’t that right, Fiz? We would’ve set you two up.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” she says as her cheeks turn slightly pink.

“Do me a favor and go away, please,” Louis says. “Far away, preferably.”

“Am I wrong, though?” she argues in between fits of laughter. “I mean, listen. If you like someone, aren’t you supposed to be like, nice to them? At least? Jesus, you were… I don’t even know. Poor thing, I think he was legitimately afraid of you.”

“Right. Okay. It’s not funny anymore, let’s stop it there, yeah?”

The girls haven’t stopped laughing, though. “We’re sorry,” says Charlotte, heading out. “Happy Christmas, Harry. Welcome to the family. We’re a fun bunch.”

“Ignore her,” Louis says into his ear, his arms still wrapped around him.

“I think she’s funny.”

“Am I not funny?”

“Meh. ‘S not your main thing.”

Just then, Harry’s phone starts ringing, and his heart drops. His mother’s name comes up on the screen. He feels Louis’ grip loosening around his body, a silent incentive to pick it up. And he does. He grabs the device and leaves the room altogether, locking himself in one of their bathrooms. He leans against the sink, and after he’s taken a deep, deep breath, he works up the courage to answer the call. His voice shakes a little when he speaks, “… Allô?”

“Harry…”

As expected, his eyes immediately fill with tears. “Maman… I’m sorry. I’m so… I’m so sorry.”

Though she doesn’t reply right away, he can still hear her crying softly over the phone. He pauses, striving to recall what he’s written in his notes, a desperate attempt to piece his thoughts together. His voice laced with upcoming sobs, he manages to blurt out the main points.

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “I don’t. I never… I never meant to hurt you. I promise. I’m sorry. I’m just. I’m sorry. I love you.”

“...I love you too, Harry.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I love you,” he repeats, like he’s trying to assert his point. “I just had to… I had to get on with my life, you know. And I still need you. I’ll always need you. It’s just… I’m not a little kid anymore. And I _want_ to get better. I want it so bad. You don’t need to worry about me. I swear, Maman.”

He wipes his tears with the back of his sleeves and takes another deep breath.

“I know, my love... I get it.”

“You do… Okay… Okay.”

“Where are you now, are you home alone?”

“No, I’m with Lo… I mean, at the Tomlinson’s. I’m spending the holidays at their house.”

“Oh, well… That’s good, baby. Hope you’re having fun.”

“I am,” he whispers, holding back a smile. “It’s lovely here. They’re so nice to me.”

“Yeah? That’s good to hear. Happy Christmas, _mon amour_. I love you. Come home if you can, alright? We’re happy to have you here. Anytime. Try and swing by before school starts again.”

“I'll try, yeah.”

“Listen, I…” she pauses, and he figures she’s trying to regain her composure. Her voice is still laced with tears but she’s simmered down now. “I’ll call you back soon. I’ll put Gem on the phone for you, she’s waiting.”

*

The morning before he’s supposed to go back to Paris, the day after New Year's Eve, Harry is alone in Louis’ room. He’s sitting on the floor and packing up, folding clothes and storing them neatly into his suitcase. At the back of his mind, though, is the stifled thought that exactly a year ago, he had tried to end his life.

He can hear everyone’s muffled voices in the kitchen. Louis’ in the shower; the water running in the background. He’s getting ready to leave, too. Harry’s managed to convince him to join him for the weekend. When they found themselves alone, hidden away and sheltered in Harry’s tiny apartment in their own little world, it was nothing but bliss, a haven of peace outside of time, something akin to pure happiness.

As he was folding his last jumper, the door creaks open and Doris takes a few shy steps inside. She usually lets her hair down, the beautiful red curls falling down in a cascade over her shoulders; now it’s tied in a long, single braid, baby hairs held back with a tiny pink headband one of her sisters' given her.

“Hello?” Harry turns his head and smiles at her. “Want to come in?”

She nods.

“Come on then. I’m just packing up.”

She climbs on Louis’ bed and lies down on her side, watching him work in silence for a few seconds.

“Are you and Louis in love?” she asks after a while, in her tiny voice.

“…Yes.”

“Really? Like grown-ups?”

He ignores the little pinch in his heart and replies, “Really. Like grown-ups.”

“Did you know that, um… Lottie’s told me that when Louis was little, he kissed a boy at school, and then… And then some other kids saw them and she said they didn’t mind their business so they hit him. And they hurt him really bad. I think I was just a baby when it happened or maybe I wasn’t even born. Lottie told me about it a long time ago but it still makes me sad.”

“He told me all about it. These things happen all the time.”

“People are just mean for no reason. I’m happy that you and my brother are in love, you’re really nice…. Do you know my mummy who’s in heaven?”

“Of course, I do.”

“I’m sure she’d love you.”


	5. And The Last Fall

Four years have gone by.

In the early days of autumn, after a slightly hectic couple of weeks, Harry returns to work in one of Montmartre's most popular art galleries. It’s usually around that time of the year that he delves into this impossibly frantic schedule of organizing the next big exhibition. He doesn’t work alone but sometimes it feels as though he does; he manages the entire event process, from the definition of the theme to the long-awaited vernissage in December. The greatest lovers of contemporary art claim to travel miles to see, criticize and buy the works. The pressure is real, but he wouldn’t trade his position for anything.

It's a Monday night, and Harry is still in the gallery. In the empty facilities set apart for the temporary exhibitions, he ambles around in the vacant rooms, compliantly tailgated by one of the artists the team had contacted earlier. He leads the way, rambling on about the upcoming exhibition and what it entails for first-timers. Bright neon lights reflect on the empty walls of the room, contrasting heavily with the pitch black of the night from the window.

“We’ve reviewed your works,” he says. “I found your vision was particularly obscure… More so than others. It deals with some pretty sensitive matters, we thought it deserved its own space, maybe a singled-out room. Most of the artwork we’ve seen so far is at the complete opposite of your tone.”

The young man who’d been following him around gives a slow nod, perusing their surroundings. He’s got his hands linked behind his back. His light steps echo in the void as he comes to a halt in the middle of the room, flashing a sly smile at Harry. “You think my vision’s obscure?”

“It’s a good thing. It’s… It’s another way of looking at the theme, you know, most people, when they see the term ‘Féminité’, they go ‘Oh, something light and delicate, then’. You’ve thought outside the box. I really liked that first painting of yours. _L’Innocence Nue_.”

“Well… I didn’t think I’d stand out. I’m glad you liked that painting. It’s my favorite so far.”

“Usually we would harass you with details that need to be reworked. But, in all honesty, I think it’s perfect. In fact, I’d like you to tell me more about it. The process, your vision, everything… Not tonight, though. We’re closing.”

“It’d be my pleasure,” he says, holding his gaze. “Do you want my number?”

Harry was about to answer, but he stops dead when he sees the little smirk that’s drawing itself on the Artist’s full lips. He stutters a little and lowers his voice when he replies, “I… I was thinking more like… We could set up an appointment in my office here. During the week.”

He tries not to look down, unsure as to why he was so flustered all of a sudden. He convinces himself he’s overthinking things. The Artist himself doesn’t seem the least bit rattled, in fact he’s got this oddly serene look about him. “I am available all week long, except on Thursday.”

“All right,” Harry nods. “I'll take note of that. That's all... unless you have any questions?”

“Not for now.”

Harry reaches out his hand to thank him, he says goodbye and he slips back into his office, not without shooting one last glance over his shoulder. The Artist fades out of the door, carried away with the chilly October wind. 

He packs up swiftly, highlighting the contact details of the next artists he’d like to showcase in the coming days. There’s not a sound or a shadow around; he’s alone in the gallery. He bundles up, bracing himself for the gust of wind he knows will hit him as soon as he leaves.

For a Monday evening, the neighborhood is still quite lively. With time, he’s come to learn that a good chunk of those people are tourists – now he can spot them from miles away. He makes his way down the narrow, winding streets, heading straight to the Abbesses station. On his way to Gare Saint-Lazare, he makes a futile attempt at reading a page of the book he’s been carrying around for a week, but ultimately ends up going over the same paragraph time and time again, the sentences just a pack of insignificant words and letters and _accents_ , as his mind wanders back to the Artist.

He feels his phone vibrating so he goes to fish it out of his back pocket. His sister has sent him a picture, along with the caption ‘Who do I kill first?’ _._ He can’t help but smile as he recognizes Baptiste, Gemma’s fiancé, sound asleep on the living room’s couch while their three-year-old son, Milo, paints on their brand-new white carpet. He replies, ‘ _Don’t be too hard on him… and let him know I miss him and that I’m looking forward to seeing him again.’_

Everyone knew about the ongoing love story between Harry and his little nephew. It’d started the exact second he was born. Harry was one of the first people to hold the baby in his arms at the hospital, and that had gotten him into a senseless argument with Baptiste: _“Can’t you let me hold my son for a minute?” “Can you wait two seconds? Jesus…”_

He doesn't get to see Milo very often, as Gemma lives in Bordeaux and he’s settled in Paris for good. The few times he does get to see him, he makes a point of smothering the kid with love and gifts and kisses and cuddles. And Milo loves him just as much. No one has ever seen Harry behaving this way with anybody. It's quite touching to see. Louis has witnessed just how great of a deal it is when he spent the holidays with Harry’s family. Milo was only a few months old at the time, and Harry hadn’t let go of him the whole night. He would carry him around the house, singing and playing with him and rocking him to sleep. He remembers that night on Christmas Eve. He was in Gemma’s old room, lying in her bed in the dark with Milo half asleep on his chest and Louis by his side. They were talking quietly so as not to wake him, and Louis told him, so confidently and so full of promises, “ _One day it’ll be us. It’ll be our turn…I promise you.”_

The memory fades down as he’s brought back to Earth in a crushing, sobering way. Today’s reality is starkly different. The train grinds to a halt and he barely makes it to his next connection before the doors close behind him. He gets out after another half hour onboard, running up the stairs with his head bowed. He pops by the nearest corner store to buy Louis’ favorite brand of cigarettes before heading home, it’s become a strength of habit now.

He and Louis have gotten their own place in the 15th about a year ago. Louis’ stepdad, who works in the field, has been a very precious help in obtaining the apartment they’d fallen head over heels in love with on their first visit. It isn’t much, but it's a definitive upgrade from the 20 square meters Harry used to live in as a student. In less than a year, they’ve turned the new place into a real home.

He takes the elevator, greeting one of their neighbors with a curt nod as she slips in between the closing doors. He gets off on the fourth floor, shooting a polite “Bonne soirée” to the middle-aged woman before they part ways. He pauses in front of their door for a short moment, just to listen. He hears voices, quite a lot of them. He frowns, inserting the key into the lock before stepping inside. He shrugs his coat off, counting about ten or fifteen clear voices. There’s faint music playing, and the unmistakable smell of cigarettes quickly reaches him. He lets out a little sigh, toeing off his shoes and hanging his keys on a tiny hook by the door. It takes him a while to recover from the initial sense of panic sparked by the presence of strangers in his home.

He tries to somewhat fix his hair in front of the little mirror in the entrance. He’s chopped off a significant amount of it a few months back. He’s outgrown the long, wild and unruly look, and quite frankly it was high maintenance and he couldn’t be bothered to dedicate his time to it. For years, Louis seemed to have this unhealthy obsession with his hair. He loved running his fingers through it, smelling it, tugging on it just the way Harry liked it when they’re in bed. But when he came back from the hairdresser, Louis didn’t look too pleased to say the least. He just eyed him down and said, _‘I liked them long, just so you know’._

Unsure of what to expect, Harry makes for the living room. All the windows are wide open, letting in an occasional draught. Louis seems to have organized some sort of little get-together, which would’ve been fine if he’d bothered to give him a heads up at the very least. As he quickly assesses his surroundings, he assumes that all these people must be attending the school of architecture Louis' enrolled in. He spots two girls smoking by the open windows; there are people in the kitchen, others chatting in front of the TV, and then Louis, sat down in the corner of their big, off white thrifted sofa, surrounded by his loud, boisterous friends.

Harry approaches cautiously, and Louis finally deigns to look up at him. He’s dressed in a black turtleneck, with his hair elegantly styled up, and the little tan he’s acquired over the summer brings out his eyes beautifully. Had they been alone, Harry would have told him just how beautiful he thinks he is, the sweetest creature of all, his diamond stud sparkling under the dim light of the living room. He looks a little defiant, too. It’s become harder to decipher the meaning behind his many expressions.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” Louis greets him, his voice unusually smooth and sultry. Harry’s not sure he likes it.

“Hi,” He replies distractedly, eyes shifting from one guest to the other.

“Come here, _mon amour_ ,” he shifts on the couch, making room for him.

“I was… I was going to say hello to everyone.”

“No need, come here.”

He’s not entirely comfortable with this situation, but he complies and goes to sit between him and the sofa’s arm. Louis snakes an arm around his waist and quietly asks for a kiss. Harry gives him a short peck on the lips and tries to shrug off the awful impression that this is all just for show. As he looks around, he realizes they’re being scrutinized.

“ _Ça va, mon coeur?_ How was your day?” Louis whispers, not taking his eyes off of him.

He turns his head to him, avoiding curious stares. “Good. You?”

“Not going to lie. I’m exhausted.”

“Then why are you doing this?” He asks, nodding towards the guests. “It’s Monday…”

Louis gives an unbothered shrug and just kisses him on the cheek, signaling him that this discussion ends here. His hand finds its place at the top of Harry’s thigh; he pats it gently, distractedly, as all the chatting picks up. Harry clocks the bottle of Beaujolais they’d had stored for a year, it's open on the coffee table, surrounded by as many half-empty glasses as there are people. They’re all smoking and drinking away, lively chatting and bouncing from one topic to another. Now most of them seem to dangerously loom and tiptoe around politics. Louis leans back against the couch cushion, his chin slightly tilted back; he listens more than he talks. He makes a few comments here and there, sparking roars of laughter and offended gasps, further rekindling the debate. Harry might be alone in this, but he doesn’t think all the commotion surrounding the new president of the Republic is that funny, especially considering that he’s an undeniable far-right tyrant who’s currently causing chaos on the international scene. Even more so, when he comes to realize that everybody here, except Louis and himself, has voted for him in the last elections.

Harry watches in silence, as per usual. He notices everything. He sees these two young women by the window, making eyes at him and thinking they’re being subtle. He sees this slightly older man in deep conversation with a redheaded girl who’s currently drinking his words. She listens and nods understandingly as he rambles on about how unfairly he’s been treated all his life. He stops for a quick sip of Beaujolais and resumes what seems to be a wretched soliloquy, fit for an old play at the Comédie Française. Harry looks away as soon as the man puts a hand on her knee.

And then he sees this man by Louis’ side. Sean, is his name – he’s picked it up when he was eavesdropping on them. Now he recalls Louis mentioning him a few times. Harry looks him up and down shamelessly. They all look the same, like there’s some sort of mandatory dress code to be part of their world, with turtlenecks and cardigans, perfectly styled hair, strong, rich perfumes and leather shoes. It’s astounding, really. Louis blends in seamlessly, so engrossed in their little game with a half-consumed cigarette between his fingers, and a half-empty glass of wine in the same hand.

“So, Harry.” And just with that, he’s taken out of his idle contemplation. The voice came from near the window. It’s this tall, dark-haired girl, whose plaid skirt he’s seen in Burberry’s prêt-à-porter collection earlier this year. “How’re you doing? I’m Lola.”

He straightens up on his seat. “I’m fine. Nice to meet you, Lola.”

“Been left aside huh?” She remarks with an amused smile on her full lips. “Louis’ told us a bit about you. What do you do, then?”

“I’m the co-director of the Halle des Vignes in Montmartre. It's an art center, and I’m tasked with organizing the gallery's exhibitions.”

“Ah, that sounds interesting. What kind of art?”

“Contemporary art. Paintings, and… sculptures, short films and all types of mediums, really. Right now, we’re working on December’s exhibition. The theme is _Isolation et Féminité._ ”

Lola bites at the corner of her lips, “Well see, that’s the thing. I’ve always had trouble with what you call ‘contemporary’. I just don’t get it, no offense. Just can’t find that connection, you know. I’ll be at a modern art museum and I’ll find myself standing in front of this… completely green canvas, right. It’s just plain, solid green, and there’s this little plaque next to it that says, like, ‘Pieces of my Soul’ or whatever. I’ve always thought it was a bit pretentious. Or maybe it’s just out of my reach, what do I know.”

Harry chuckles lightly, and replies, “It’s highly subjective, is the thing. There’s something for everybody I suppose. You can’t just narrow it down to one particular type of creation. Although, it’s true that some artwork is just… not meant to be understood. It's just meant to be felt.”

“So… modern art and contemporary art are two different things, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Harry answers eagerly, shifting forward on the sofa. “Modern art is a period. It started with the Impressionists in the 1870s with Édouard Manet, and Van Gogh, and…”

“Oh I love Van Gogh!” she exclaims, crossing both hands against her heart.

“Don’t we all… Anyway, _that_ was the modern period, with realism, symbolism, art nouveau and all that stuff. It ended around the fifties… and that big break was basically Pop Art’s breakthrough. Rings a bell?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Wasn’t that… what’s his name… the man with the funny hair who used to display all those cans of Campbell's soup?”

“Andy Warhol. And you're right, he's an important pioneer. This marked the beginning of a new period and now, since the sixties, it’s always been a bit complicated to define. If I had to simplify it, I’d say a work of contemporary art is something that’s addressed to the public. It’s meant to convey certain ideas or concepts, or denounce a social phenomenon. There’s much less objective representation, per se, and more criticism and questioning. In short, it’s just… everything that violates the ‘rules’ of Art, as it was seen in modern or classical works. And it’s, pretty much, this period, until today, and which is in constant evolution, that we call contemporary. And that’s what you seem to have a little trouble with.”

By the time he’s finished explaining the nuances between the periods, Lola has sat down on a little chair someone had brought in from the kitchen, her arms crossed over the wooden back, wholly captivated by his words. “You mentioned art nouveau... Is that a period?”

“No, it’s a movement. It's a bit more specific. A movement is like… say, a style. See those little arches right above the stairs of the underground entrances? The ones with ‘Métropolitain’ written on them? Well, see, that’s one of the-”

“ _Bébé_ ,” Louis whispers to him. “Can you bring out the last bottle, please? We’ve run out.”

“He was talking!” Lola cries out indignantly.

Harry rises to his feet compliantly and pads across the place to go fetch the last bottle of red wine from one of the high cupboards, where they stored them horizontally, carefully hidden from the light.

“I’ll give you five euros, all right,” Louis says, producing a paper bill from his pocket and waving it in front of Lola. “Five euros, right there, if you can repeat what he just said to you.”

“I would,” she snaps. “But you’re an arsehole, so I’m not going to.”

Louis bursts out laughing, “You didn’t understand a thing, did you? It’s okay, I didn’t either.”

“I did, actually,” she says, crossing her arms, fighting back a smile.

“Yeah, right.”

Harry comes back soon enough, pops open the bottle and pours some into Louis’ waiting glass before sitting back down. Louis puts his arm back around his waist and pulls him close, sliding a small ‘merci’ along with a quick peck on his jawline.

Lola watches them fixedly, a tender smile drawing itself on her lips. “How long has it been?”

“You mean how long we’ve been together?” Harry asks.

“Yes.”

“Like three years,” Louis replies before taking a short sip of wine. “Three and a half, something like that. But we've known each other since we were kids.”

“Four years,” Harry whispers, more for him than for the others.

“You two are so cute together,” says Lola. _“Longue vie à vous deux._ ”

She raises her glass to them and Harry smiles at her again before resting his head against Louis' shoulder. Now that most of the attention is on them, Louis takes it upon himself to entertain the crowd by telling them about their holidays in Italy. He and Harry had rented the loveliest little Airbnb on the Amalfi coast in August. He deliberately skips over the devastating fight they have had just before they left Paris. He prudently avoids mentioning just how bad the first two days had been. But if there’s one thing Harry’s positive he’ll never forget, it’s this fight. It wasn’t their first, but it certainly had been the biggest one yet. Harry has repressed most of it, in some sort of coping mechanism. He’s thrown a cloak over the memory but, from time to time, he likes to torture himself by taking furtive, hasty peeks at the sleeping beast.

He remembers their next-door neighbor, the sweet middle-aged woman, who’s worked herself up into a panic after hearing all the yelling and the screaming and showed up at their door to make sure everything was fine. He remembers crying in the airport bathroom. He remembers seriously considering canceling the whole thing and giving Louis his money back – because he’d saved up for weeks working at his shitty internship and they couldn’t just call it quits right there and then. They’d made up eventually, a few days into the trip. Italy does that to you. They’d danced outside at night underneath the stars and the twinkling lights, they’d gotten drunk on all kinds of wine and eaten more than they could take.

But since the fight, it hasn’t really been the same.

An hour has almost gone by and Harry’s feeling a little drowsy. He’s so ostensibly bored with everything and he wishes they could all just leave.

Until now, he hasn’t been really following the train of conversations. But while he frowns when he hears a few _questionable_ statements, he knows he isn’t brave enough to intervene. He doesn’t want to cause a scene. Had they been close to him, he might’ve confronted some of them, might’ve called them out for being just outrageously contentious. Sometimes he turns to Louis and searches for his eyes as if to ask, ‘ _Aren’t you going to say anything?’_

Every time, Louis avoids him on purpose. In those moments, Harry feels like he's with a complete stranger. Then again, he supposes it's this new life. This city. It changes people. Louis didn’t use to be this vain and shallow. He recalls a time where Louis used to say that he liked being anonymous, completely insignificant, not caring if he didn’t blend in perfectly… But there he is today, loud and haughty and so full of himself, some days Harry catches him looking down on people; he couldn’t have been more Parisian if he tried and he wasn’t even born in Paris. He just wants to ask him, _‘Who the hell do you think you are?’_ , but he never does.

“Lou?” he whispers, nudging his sides. “Did you have dinner?”

“Come again?” Louis turns to him, a stupid smile plastered on his face.

“Are you hungry? I can whip something up quickly.”

“Are any of you hungry?” He asks the guests, who object politely. “No, we’re fine,” he turns back to him.

“I wasn’t asking if _they_ were hungry.”

A loud noise startles him. Someone had just broken some glass in the kitchen. Louis looks down, fingers idly scratching at the back of his neck and Harry understands it’s his cue to leave. He makes a quick stopover by the entrance to put some shoes on.

The kitchen is nothing short of a disaster. There’s a mountain of dishes in the sink, on the counter and all over the small wooden table. He stands there in the entrance, frankly annoyed. The two young men who’d been messing around in the kitchen apologize and offer to clean up. Harry dismisses them with a nod and tells them to leave. He crouches down and plucks the biggest glass shards with the utmost care, disposing of them in the bin. He retrieves the broom from that tiny space between the fridge and the counter, sweeping the floor to make sure they wouldn’t step on a forgotten little piece. He moves on to the dishes, painfully aware that it would take him the entire evening.

It’s a tiny place, really, he can still very much hear what’s going on in the living room. People seem to be a little tipsier, laughing just a little louder; he’s not sure if it’s real or if it’s just an impression.

Back on the sofa, Sean sets his glass down on the already full coffee table and leans toward Louis, “Hear me out, mate. Just between us, yeah?”

“Uh-huh,” Louis leans in, a drunken smile on lips, his cheeks tinted pink. “I’m all ears.”

“Your boyfriend, right,” he whispers, “He’s got such… I’m sorry. He’s got such dick sucking lips. Is… He does that, right? He looks like he does. I mean, it’s so obvious. Just took one look at you two, figured you two out, didn’t I?”

Louis’ silent for a short moment. He’s lost his smile as soon as Sean’s started talking. But people are looking, so he laughs it off and downs the rest of his drink.

“Alright, so… First of all,” he starts, stifling a laugh. “Why are you even looking at my boyfriend’s lips? Let’s be clear.”

“So, you’re not denying it?” Sean bursts out laughing, and then lowers his voice as he delves even deeper, “I knew you weren’t the one to take it up the-”

“Oh, come on!” Lola cuts them off. “Sean, that’s such a mean thing to say. And besides, it’s _so_ none of your business.”

Sean frowns in confusion. “Mean? It’s a fact! It’s like, if I said that a girl… or a bloke in his case, right, has dick sucking lips… ‘S not like I’m trying to make fun of them. It’s just… a fact. A physical trait. It’s as if I was saying, yeah, he’s got curly hair. Same thing.”

“ _Non, imbécile_!” she snaps. “God, you’re so dense. Were you dropped on your head as a baby? What if I said that about your girlfriend?”

“Well, you'd be right. She gives the best head in this entire city. That's a fucking compliment right there, sit down, woman, this is _men_ ’s talk, you wouldn’t get it.”

There’s an eruption of laughter around the room. Louis pours himself another glass of wine as his smile fades away. He glances quickly towards the kitchen. Luckily, Harry doesn’t seem to have caught on.

“Don’t call me woman,” she threatens, and Sean just raises both hands as if to claim his innocence. “You know what? I’m leaving.”

“Why?” Louis asks, genuinely confused.

“Because I hate little boys like him.” She simply says, throwing on her black coat and grabbing her purse. “Also, don’t be that man, Louis,” she confides to him, low enough so no one else would hear. “Stand up when you need to.” Before she leaves, she makes a quick stopover by the kitchen. “Take care, Harry.”

He glances over his shoulder, hands deep in the sink. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” she nods with a little smile. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight!”

After the kitchen is finally spotless, he eats some leftovers from the previous days, just to keep his hunger at bay. He steps into the living room, hurrying back to his place, cupping Louis’ knee to get his attention. “I’m going to bed,” he whispers. “Can you wrap it up, please? It’s getting late.”

Louis just nods. “We’ll be quiet, _mon amour_. You go, I’ll join you later. _Bonne nuit_.”

He doesn’t comment although he desperately wants to. He goes to stand up but Louis holds him back by his hand, motioning for him to lean in, and kisses him on the lips. Harry would’ve found it endearing were it not for the lingering impression that this was, once again, just for show. He heads to the bathroom for a quick shower, brushes his teeth and then goes straight to bed. Through the closed door, he can still make out muffled voices and music all throughout the night, until around one in the morning, when he finally falls asleep.

He’s startled awake in the middle of the night by a rumble of drawers sliding open and shut. Louis’ steps around the bedroom make the floorboards squeak; he hears him coughing and he sheds all his clothes off and slips into bed with him. The mattress dips on his side as he leans toward him to check if he’s still awake. Harry pretends to be asleep.

*

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s alone in bed and feels like he’s definitely overslept. It isn’t like it matters a great deal, he could show up at work whenever he pleases – he could even choose not to, but he likes getting a head start on his days and he isn’t one to laze about at home all day long. He stretches out with a groan and checks the time; it’s nine o’clock. He kneels on the bed and reaches out to open the white shutters, letting the fresh morning breeze air the room out as he makes the bed.

Much to his surprise, he finds Louis in the living room, sprawled in his underwear on the sofa in front of some stupid TV show they used to watch for laughs back when Harry lived in his old apartment.

His hair’s all mussed and he seems to be floating in this black wool sweater that’s very obviously too big for him.

“Hi,” Louis mumbles without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Hey… Don’t you have class?”

“I do, actually. But my head’s killing me. Can you make some coffee? And grab those painkillers on the counter for me please.”

Harry just stands there, assessing the situation.

“ _Please_ , bébé.”

He doesn’t particularly feel like tending to his every whim this morning, especially after last night’s events, but he’s smart enough to pick his battles. He retreats to the kitchen and turns on the coffee pot. “The place’s a mess,” he says as he pulls out a mug from the cupboard.

“Huh?”

“I said, it’s a mess. And it still smells like smoke. Can you tidy up a little, please? And air it out, I don’t want the smell to stick on the fabric.”

“Yes. I'll do that later. When you leave.”

“If you do it _now_ , it’ll be done and I’ll stop nagging you with it.”

“Can you give it a rest? Told you I have a headache.”

Harry drops it for now. He hands him a cup of coffee and a tablet of painkillers and drops down next to him. They watch the show together until the commercial break, and because it’s a little cold, they share this thin, woolen throw blanket.

“About yesterday,” Harry starts, carefully. “I’m not saying it was wrong or anything, but… I just wish you’d warned me before having people over.”

“Oh, that wasn’t planned. I’d actually invited, like, two or three friends over, and then more people found out and they just showed up, I suppose. Not like I could turn them out.”

“Are these the people you spend your time with?”

“What?” Louis just stares at him blankly, eyebrows furrowing into a deep scowl. “Yeah?” he shrugs. “They're my friends.”

“I just don't understand why you hang out with people like them.”

“People like them.”

“You know what I mean. Don’t act like you didn’t know all your posh, fascist friends voted for Vincent Capel.”

Louis looks at him without saying anything, quirking an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Go on’.

“The things they would say, I mean it was just so sickening. And you wouldn’t call them out or anything, you’d just stay quiet. How does it feel, knowing that all your friends support a man who bad mouths people like us as if it was 1950?”

“If it was _so sickening_ , all you had to do was speak up. You know how to talk, I’ve seen you do it, you could have shut them up, they won’t eat you.”

“Why didn’t _you_? Why can’t you stand up for yourself and others? These are the same kind of people who beat you up and broke your ribs in middle school. That could’ve easily been them.”

“I'm tired,” he simply answers, pressing his words. “I don't want to talk about this with you right now. Honestly don’t feel like fighting. And…Dunno why you felt the need to bring _that_ up.”

“Fine.”

The show resumes, and Harry uses it as a pretext to avoid having to look at him or continue the conversation. Besides, Louis isn’t even watching anymore. He’s on his phone, aimlessly scrolling down Instagram. His screen casts a dim light in the otherwise rather dark living room. He switches to the Facebook app to check his notifications.

Harry's page hasn't really changed. He still doesn't have a profile picture, and he hasn't posted anything in years. If you’d stumbled upon his page, the only thing you’d find out about him was his name, the place he worked at, and the fact that he is “In a relationship” with Louis Tomlinson. On the other hand, Louis’ profile was a bit more elaborate. His picture dates back to a few months; Harry could proudly say he’s the one who snapped it. He’s sitting in a little café on the sunny terraces of Montmartre with a fierce look about him, a glass of champagne in his hand, and of course, his signature diamond stud, angled just right so it sparkles with the light. There are dozens of comments made by his friends and sisters.

_Julien: Gorgeous!!! love the earring_

_Éléonore: Is it hot in here or is it just me… we miss you, Loulou, come see us down there! Marseille’s always sunny._

_Ilona: hey Harry, do u mind sharing?_

_Félicité: is that my jacket on the chair??_

_Charlotte: Paris suits you well, you’re glowing! Don’t let it get to ur head tho x_

The only comment he’d replied to was Harry’s, who had sent him a blue heart, to receive a green one in return, as a wink to the, now, good old days. It’s bittersweet to see. As the show draws to a close, Harry’s phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s a message from one of his colleagues, listing today’s to-do list. He tucks it back in and takes a moment to stretch. “Are you going to have lunch here?”

“Probably,” Louis mumbles dismissively, clicking his phone shut.

“I’ve got to leave soon, want me to cook something up for later?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” he whispers as he turns his head to see him better. “I’ll eat the leftovers. Then I think I'll head down to the workshop this afternoon, if I’m feeling better.”

“That’s nice. Any projects you’re working on at the moment?”

“Yes.”

“And… how’s it going?”

“It’s going,” he smiles. “Can I ask you for a favor, _mon amour_? We’re completely out of red wine. We emptied the entire stock yesterday. And I’m out of smokes too.”

“I bought your cigarettes on my way back home yesterday. They’re in my coat pocket. I’ll leave them by the door when I head out.”

“ _Merci._ And for the wine, get Château d'Arsac... you know the one your mum served us at Christmas _? Loved_ it. God, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“All right... can I get a kiss before I leave?”

“Of course, my love… Come here, you don’t need to ask.”

Harry leans in, and Louis gives him a quick peck on the lips. He offers him a little smile that’s meant to be reassuring, but Harry does not return it.

“You good?” Louis tugs the wool plaid over his body, pulling it up to his chin.

“Yeah. I'm gonna get ready.”

*

He’s barely walked through the doors at the gallery and he’s already being greeted by a swarm of people. The place is alive and buzzing with energy, his colleagues hustling about to accommodate and tend to every artist who’s hoping to get exposed.

After he’s said hello and shaken hands with enough people, he retreats into his office and shrugs his coat off. Someone knocks on his door, inviting themselves in shortly after. It’s the new team member, some gallerist in his late thirties who’d joined the Halle in August. “Salut, je te dérange?”

“Hi, no, just came in. How are you?” Harry sits down at his desk as the man walks into the room, carrying a huge manila folder that he sets down in front of him.

“ _Ça va, ça va_. Just dropping this off, it’s for you. It came in the mail this morning, it’s a bunch of new proposals for the exhibition. Not sure how many more of these we can actually consider, but you should definitely take a look, and show me the ones you like and we can get back to these people before the deadline.”

“All right.” He settles in to review the works, opening the folder and quickly flipping through the pages to get an overview. “I think… ten more. Ten more, we can take. For the rest… we either tell them to try again in the spring or…”

“Let them down gently, am I right?” he smiles, leaning against the door frame. “Say, I don’t mean to intrude or anything. But I saw you the other day in the Marais… La Galerie de l’Hôtel Particulier?” Harry looks up from his folder. “I saw you with that young woman, I couldn't help but wonder if she was your girlfriend.”

“I’m not sure who you're referring to.”

“Tall brunette? Dressed in black from head to toe? She had really long hair… And she seemed very interested in the works.”

“Ah. That’s my sister-in-law,” he replies with a smile. “She lives in Geneva. She was spending a few days in Paris and I was just showing her around.”

“Sister-in-law! Are you married then?”

“Hm? No... I just… I like saying _my sister-in-law_ , it sounds nice. She's my boyfriend's sister. Well, technically step-sister but they don’t even use that term, whatever, it’s a whole thing.”

“Right. Well, bring her around here next time, who knows, she might like it.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ll let her know.”

‘Well, I'll leave you to it,” he goes to open the door but stops in his tracks. “Also... Before I forget. One of the artists’ planning on stopping by, today. He’s asked to see _you_ , specifically. Should I tell him to reschedule? You’re going to be busy for a couple hours…”

“No,” he pushes the folder aside. “It sounds important. I can squeeze someone in. Who is it?”

“It's... Let me see check my messages... Mr. Elias Sharaz. He should be here shortly. Says his main piece is _L’Innocence Nue.”_

*

Elias is _beautiful_. He can’t lie. He's a little taller than Harry, probably a little older too. He’s got slightly curly, brown hair that reminds him of his own, except it’s a little longer and certainly better maintained. And he’s got those long, curved eyelashes that make him lose his concentration when he talks to him, and almond-shaped eyes; a deep amber color. Harry finds himself leaning in to catch a whiff of his perfume, and it’s frankly embarrassing. Now that he’s put a name on The Artist’s face, it’ll be infinitely harder to get rid of his thoughts of him.

He notices the little things, like how Elias rarely blinks when he holds his gaze, and how it feels like he’s looking right into his soul. But he collects himself eventually. He remains entirely professional – he has to be, even after Elias showed up at the gallery and suggested they go out and discuss his works in one of Montmartre’s best cafés.

They sit down to chat over a latte and a croissant au beurre. Harry gives him the floor, settling back in what he hoped was a rather casual stance, but as he speaks, he finds himself straightening up on his chair and even leaning in, crossing his arms on the table and giving him his full, utmost attention, wholly captivated by his words, the strength of his passion, his vision of the world, and by that little something that’s animating him. He finds him eloquent; he’s always been drawn to people who master the art of speaking. Deeply intrigued, Harry rebounds with a string of questions about his past. He wants to know his background, everything from his studies to the source of his inspirations. Despite the formality of it all, it doesn’t feel like a professional interview, it’s more like a simple conversation.

Elias was born in Egypt and he’d lived there with his family until he turned seventeen. After graduating from the French high school in Cairo, he was admitted to the Beaux-Arts de Paris, having admittedly developed a keen interest and talent for painting, as well as an impressively broad artistic and literary culture. He wanted to become a painter at all costs, and it had essentially turned him into the pariah of his family, who’d tried – and failed – to get him to pursue a plain liberal arts education. He’d fallen in love with Paris, as many people did, and made it clear he wouldn’t leave for anything in the world. He couldn’t see himself finding his inspiration and creating his art anywhere else.

After the coffee, they saunter around the small, winding streets at the foot of the hill, venturing aimlessly into the Abbesses’ flea market. They get lost twice, too caught up in their conversation to keep track of their steps.

Elias was like a breath of fresh air. It was exhilarating at best, disturbing at worst. It’s been a while since Harry felt that he could really talk to someone who understands him, and who is so wholly passionate about art – even more than he is. And what’s worse; he’s funny, too. He’s witty without ever being offensive or obscene, and Harry finds himself bursting out laughing every five seconds.

Their informal meeting concludes itself as they wind up in front of the gallery. All of a sudden, a wave of uneasiness takes over him, and he starts stuttering, which was distressingly unlike him, “Um… It was very nice meeting you and… And uh… Well, I hope it all goes well for you during the exhibition, and…Um…”

Elias just smiles at his discomfort.

“Well... we hope to work with you again in the near future, perhaps?”

“Could we get on a first-name basis?”

“I... sure.”

“I'd like to see you again, Harry.”

An auspicious autumn breeze blows through Harry's hair, rushing into his open coat. He feels a shiver down his spine and crosses his arms to try and keep warm. They’re definitely heading down a slippery slope. He averts his gaze, eyes fixated on the storefront of a little bakery while he thinks it through. It doesn’t take him long; he looks at him and smiles. “Yeah. All right. Yes.”

“Does that mean yes? I’m not too sure…”

Harry giggles again as Elias studies him inquiringly, eyeing him from head to toe. Harry’s never been good at reading body language.

If he was, he would’ve maybe taken the hint and understood that his best friend Charlie had once wanted to be more than just friends.

They say goodbye for good, and Harry slips back inside, his cheeks all pink from the cold, or perhaps from something else. He leans back against the glass door after Elias has left, and his smile gradually fades away, until it disappears completely, pulled down by the hefty weight of reality. There’s a faint bitter taste in his mouth which is absolutely not due to the coffee he’d drunk earlier.

*

All the evenings are very much alike – they tend to blend into each other, more or less. Harry’s come to notice there are only two kinds of evenings. The first kind is the quiet one, when Louis isn’t home because he’s gone out with his friends and he only comes back in the early hours of the morning, exhausted and reeking of alcohol, collapsing in the bed next to him and sleeping in until noon. The second kind isn’t much more thrilling. Louis would be there, sober and silent, sprawled on the sofa in front of the TV, slightly lethargic, with a hand buried in a bag of pretzels and the other on the remote control. This night leans more toward the second.

Harry’s washing the dishes; the bottom of his shirt is soaked with water. Louis’ in the living room, watching the 8 pm news on _France 2_ , a glass of red wine in his hand.

_“Vincent Capel says out loud what he has been whispering to his ministers and his majority so far: the president has confirmed in an interview with Europe 1 that he wants to tackle immigration, and for this, he wants the healthcare system to be reassessed. He considers the medical assistance provided to migrants to be excessive. The question of healthcare for foreigners is once again at the heart of the debate. In France, there are two systems that...”_

He turns off the TV with a click of the remote. “I'm going to bed.”

Harry stays quiet. He wipes the counter clean and throws a sheet of foil over the leftovers from dinner, placing them into the fridge. They’d eaten in near-complete silence while watching TV, barely exchanging more than a couple of words, limiting themselves to a detached succession of ‘ _How was your day?’ ‘Good, you?’ ‘Good, yeah. Dinner’s good.’ ‘Thanks.’_

Harry hates the fact that they’d turned into the kind of old couple who absolutely needs the TV on to hide the fact that they’ve got nothing to say to each other.

He washes up and gets ready for bed before joining him later on, quietly padding into the bedroom and half expecting Louis to be asleep. But the light is on and he’s lying there, shirtless, with a book in his hand. Harry strips naked, tossing his clothes into the laundry bin. Louis doesn’t even look up at him as he turns a page in his book. Harry climbs in bed and lies beside him, looking up intently at him. He gently reaches out his hand to take the book away, anticipating to be met with at least some sort of resistance, but Louis compliantly lets go and watches as Harry sets the book upon the bedside table. He leans in and places a hot, tender kiss in the crook of Louis’ neck, fingers brushing against his naked chest.

But then Louis gently pushes his hand away. “Not really in the mood.”

Harry freezes. He just rests his head against his bare shoulder and looks at him, feeling his throat tightening up a little. “We haven’t had sex in weeks,” he whispers. “You don't touch me anymore. You don't even look at me.”

“…That’s not true,” he tries to deny, avoiding his eyes.

“You know that doesn’t count,” he mutters, referring to that one time they showered together last week and Harry had sucked him off before heading to work. “Is it something I’ve done?”

And of course, he knows. As hard as he tries to hide it, a hint of guilt flashes in his eyes. He even seems a little sad, as if he couldn’t really help it, as if he too was troubled by his own decisions. He brings a hand up to Harry’s face, gently cupping his cheek, just like when they were kids. “Of course not, babe. I’m not doing too well at the moment but… I promise you it’s not your fault.”

Harry’s having a hard time believing him and his eyes start glimmering under the light.

“Don't cry, please.”

“’M not going to. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, love, you’re all right. I’ll sort myself out.”

“I want you to touch me…” he pleads, the soft rasp in his voice betraying just how fucking badly he needed this.

“Not tonight, _mon amour_. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Then hold me in your arms. I miss you.”

“I'm right here.”

“I know. That's the whole point.”

Louis pulls him closer, lazily wrapping in arm around his naked back, stroking his skin with his thumb. “You know. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” he starts. “It’s been a while.”

He feels him tensing underneath his touch. “Yeah?”

“Here’s the thing. I appreciate everything you do for me. Truly, I do. When you cook, when you clean up after me ‘cause I’m a total slob, when you always make sure I’ve got everything I need… It’s sweet. But on the other hand, you see, it sort of bothers me when you’re basically bending over backward for me. You never go out, you… I don’t know, I’ve never seen you truly enjoying yourself. You’re always there, either at home taking care of me or at work… And the thing is sometimes I feel guilty about going out, which… shouldn’t happen. Tell me if I’m wrong, but I’m sure it wasn’t exactly in your plans to live like this.”

Harry relaxes, closing his eyes. “But I like taking care of you. I don’t mind at all.”

“I know, _bébé._ I know. You’re good at it, too. But I don't want you to feel alone, is the thing... I want you to be happy, you know what I mean? You need to go out, make friends, have fun. We're not getting any younger, I don't know if you've noticed.”

“I’ve got you. I'm fine with that,” he whispers. “I'm happy with you, I'm happy like that. I don't need anything else.”

“Yeah, but is this really how it’s going to be like for the rest of our lives? Don’t take this the wrong way, but not having a social life, it just… it just doesn’t work out for couples. You don't like my friends, all right, fine. But you need to get out there... it's a bit sad, if you ask me.”

There’s a growing lump in his throat as he looks up at him, truly disheartened by the fact that _this_ is how Louis sees their lives. “I'm... I'm not as miserable as you think I am, Louis. I _have_ friends. I like my life... Don't pity me, I'm fine.”

“…Well in this case, I apologize.”

“Don’t bring this up again.”

“All right.”

Harry rests his head against his chest and feels his eyes prickling with tears. He doesn't want to cry. He _can't_ cry.

Louis reaches for the bedside lamp and clicks it shut.

“Hold me,” Harry begs quietly.

Louis does as he says. He spoons him, feeling Harry’s warm back against his chest, and throws an arm over his body, pulling him even closer. Harry takes his hand and brings it up to his mouth, dusting a light kiss over his fingers. As he strokes his wrist, his fingertips trace over the silver bracelet that Anne has gotten Louis for his birthday. Today, there is no denying that she loves him very much – she even calls him ‘my son-in-law’ whenever she brings him up in front of other people. That being said, no one could forget how strained Anne and Louis’ relationship had been at first. She isn’t used to having someone stand up to her, and Louis is certainly not one to let himself be pushed around. If she ever so much as criticized theirs or Harry’s choices in front of them, subtly or not, he would step up and put her back in her place, quickly and unequivocally, and he did it so gracefully and without ever disrespecting her, she could never retort.

That night, Louis falls asleep long before he does.

*

The next morning, Harry brings breakfast to the coffee table in the living room. He sits down, scarcely awake. He didn't sleep well, and it shows through the dark circles under his eyes. As he cuts a baguette in half, Louis enters the living room with his hair still wet, dressed only in low-riding, grey sweatpants. He's on the phone, walking aimlessly around the room, too caught up in his conversation. “We’ve talked about this the other day, haven’t we? What did you expect? Those people, all right, they don't see _you_ , they see your _file_ and...”

“Lou,” Harry calls out with a slightly hoarse voice. “Come eat, it’ll get cold.”

“No, mate, listen to me. You can’t show up there and let yourself be pushed around, ‘cause that’s what they’re gonna do, you need to stand up for yourself, show them why they should…. No, not like that… Hey, look, I didn’t mean it like that, obviously you’re not gonna… Yeah… Yeah that’s it, you get it now. I know how this works, I know how these people are, I’ve dealt with them. In this business it’s eat or be eaten.”

“Louis.” Louis stops and looks at him, and for a second Harry feels like he’s got his attention. “We’re out of milk, you want a cup of tea? Tell me now, because I’ve got to leave soon.”

He pauses for a while, with the phone still stuck to his ear. Harry can hear a faint voice on the speaker, and he knows that Louis hasn’t heard a _word_ he said to him.

“You know what? I'm coming. We're gonna talk about it and I'm going to help you go over it again, ‘cause right now, clearly.... No, no it’s no trouble, I promise. I’ve had tons of help when I was looking for my internship, I want to help you… Look, let me just get ready, and I can be at Belleville around… ten, ten fifteen. Will you wait for me?... Yeah, the underground, obviously… We could get something to eat if you want… Right… See you, bye.” It’s dead silent when he hangs up, and Harry’s just staring at him blankly. “What were you saying?”

“Nothing. I take it you’re not eating breakfast here, then.”

“Well… No. Gonna meet up with Sean, so…”

“Sure. That’s fine.”

Louis crosses his arms, deep in thought, while Harry fumbles around to prepare his own breakfast in complete silence.

“We’re almost out of shower gel,” Louis says. “I'll stop by Carrefour on my way back... do you need anything?”

“No,” he replies, a little colder than he intended.

“Okay. Also... Dan's birthday is next Friday... if you want to come. Everyone will be there.”

Harry wraps both hands around his cup of tea and brings it up to his mouth before taking a careful little sip. “If I want to come,” he repeats, with a hint of contempt in his voice that Louis doesn’t quite catch.

“Yeah. I'll be there for sure, but... It's up to you.”

“Right, but that's not really an invitation, is it?”

Louis lets out a loud sigh. “ _Yes._ Yes, of course it's an invitation. Just worded it wrong, that's all, no need to get all huffy about it, yeah?” And on that, Louis retreats into their room to go get ready, cursing under his breath. Harry shoves his breakfast aside and sinks into the couch. His stomach feels like it’s tied into knots, the fresh food suddenly less appealing than it has any right to be. He grabs his phone and types in a quick message to Elias, whose name he hasn’t saved yet.

**To: _07 38 41 52 49_**

_Hi, it's Harry. When can we meet again?_

*

Over the next few weeks, Harry and Elias meet on several occasions, both in the context of the upcoming exhibition and outside of it too. Together, they visit museums, big and small, and spend a remarkable amount of time in each room, way longer than any normal visitor would care to. They sit on the tiny benches side by side, facing the paintings, taking their sweet time appreciating and studying every detail. Elias listens without ever interrupting him or giving out the impression that he’s merely waiting until he’s finished speaking to give his own opinion – Harry likes him, and he likes hearing his interpretations too. His mind simply amazes him, and he wishes he could explore every part of it. They also spend a lot of time over at the cinémathèque, where dozens of short films, period-pieces and indie movies from all over the world are being screened. They get to eat sweet popcorn during the shows; Harry wasn’t too sure about it, but he caved in once, putting a small handful into his mouth and cringing at the taste.

Being with Elias was oddly invigorating. It sounded so terribly cliché but he really did feel like some dead part of himself had been rekindled. It was sincerely exciting to be around someone who understood him, who shared his outlook on life – someone whose inner flame was still very much aglow.

And of course, just when everything seems to be going well, Elias lets a tiny detail slip out. It’s stupid, really, but it had never actually crossed his mind.

It’s a Thursday afternoon, at the beginning of November. They are in a _bistro_ , seated together in a cozy corner hidden in the back. They’re inside for the first time in a while, sheltered from the cold. The terraces were closed for the season.

“My girlfriend – she’s German. This, right here, that’s their specialty.” He points his fork at what their waitress had just set down in front of him. “Mind you, I had no idea what _sauerkraut_ was back then. So at first, it was like, _mais quelle horreur_? Fermented cabbage, I tell her, you eat that of your own free will? You mean no one’s holding you at gunpoint, you just eat that for fun? She goes, yes, of course. And then she says, you should give it a go, and I’m like, _ma chérie_ , I love you and I love your country and I’ll even learn how to speak German for you, but this, this is where I draw the line.”

Harry’s just staring, his chin buried inside of his palm, elbow propped against the table. A faint smile makes his lips curl on one side.

“Then we spend a weekend at her parents’ in Düsseldorf… And her mum tries to give me a taste… Naturally, I don’t want to upset them, so I eat, like, the tiniest bite. And it’s not even that bad. Actually it’s not bad at all. Her mum taught me how to make sauerkraut from scratch. So, in all good faith, I took notes, wrote the whole recipe down, and now I can even make some at home when she says she misses her Mama’s cooking.”

“That’s sweet,” he whispers.

“Isn’t it? I’d do anything for her, anyway. If she ever asked me to give her Alsace and Lorraine, don’t be surprised if France ends up losing a big chunk of land to the Germans.” Harry’s little smile fades away. He doesn’t even know what to think. Elias brings his fork up to his mouth and looks up at him. “Everything okay?”

“You have a girlfriend,” he points out, inconspicuously, even adding a little shrug to make it all the more innocent.

“Uh-huh… Oh, right. I’ve not mentioned her yet, have I? Her name’s Mia. We’ve been living together for two years, I think, two years and a half probably. She’s an actress. Used to do theater but recently she played in a movie that just came out, don’t know if you’ve heard of it. It’s called _Sérénade à deux_. It’s actually the work of a French-German director, she was in luck. The movie was shown in Cannes earlier this year. She won the César price for Most Promising Actress… I’m very proud of her.”

Harry just nods, swirling his fork around his plate and sorting his salad. He’s not even hungry anymore, and a painful reminder of just how much he used to hate himself creeps back in. He didn’t know exactly what he’d expected, and he refuses to do the only rational thing, which is to reflect upon _why_ he feels this sudden sharp, bitter pang in his chest.

“What about you?” Elias adds. “D’you have a girlfriend?... Or boyfriend?”

“No,” he answers right away. “No one at the moment.”

Elias gives him a little smile. “Right. Want dessert?”

*

“Where have you been?”

That same night, when Harry comes home around 9 after having spent the evening with Elias in the gallery, Louis’ waiting for him in the living room with his laptop on his knees. Harry slips out of his shoes, hanging his coat on the rack and taking his hat off before running a hand through his messy hair. He couldn’t be bothered today.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” he replies as he steps into the room.

Louis doesn't return his _bonsoir_ ; he's waiting for an answer. Thankfully, he doesn’t even look mad, just a little curious.

“I was with a client,” he lies. “I stayed late at the gallery.”

“ _D’accord_. Wanna order a pizza?”

Harry nods and drops down on the couch next to him, putting his feet up against the cushion. He pulls at the long sleeves of his sweater to cover his hands and snuggles up against him as Louis dials the nearest pizzeria’s number on his phone. “No dishes tonight,” he points out. “How’s that for a change, babe?”

“’S nice.”

“What toppings?”

“Anything’s fine.”

“No cheese, I presume?”

“Don’t mind. If you want cheese, let’s get cheese.”

“You don’t… eat cheese, babe.”

“That’s okay,” he reiterates, fingers idly squeezing Louis’ arm.

“What? You giving up?” Louis taunts him jokingly. “The vegan Gods are watching.”

“Nah. I really don’t care at the moment. Get anything you want.”

“Fine.” Louis orders a large vegetarian pizza, and while he’s on the phone, Harry closes his eyes, curling up into a ball against Louis’ side. He feels dirty, like something’s eating at him from the inside; it’s heavy, it’s hot, and it almost makes him want to hurt himself. “Tell me,” Louis says after hanging up. “Have you ever been on the verge of breaking down? When you, say, walk by McDonald’s and the smell just hits you. Or when you see someone eating something you used to love before you became vegan.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, and he feels Louis’ fingers threading through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Sometimes. But I hold back, I always do. And to be honest, now, just the thought of McDonald’s makes me want to throw up.”

“It’s funny, we’ve been together so long I’m starting to think exactly like you. I mean, I don’t deprive myself like you do, but…”

“I don’t deprive myself?...”

“You know what I mean. And, like, whenever I eat anything, I wonder where it came from, how it was made, if it was produced locally, if it’s a product of fair trade, if nothing and no one has suffered in the process… See, I get you. Still, it’s hard to stick to it completely. I admire you.”

Harry shifts on the couch and lies down completely, resting his head on Louis’ lap so he can play with his hair. Louis turns the TV on, flicking through the channels before stopping on Canal+.

Harry’s never been one to believe in destiny, or miracles, or even bad karma for that matter. But now it seems like someone is playing a dirty trick on him. Tonight, much to his despair, they’re showing the winning film of the Cannes Festival’s ‘ _Un Certain Regard’_ category: Sérénade à deux. Obviously, Louis sees nothing wrong with it, so they watch the movie together while Harry’s mind is running a thousand miles a minute. When the pizza gets here, Harry force-feeds himself a slice, all the while wondering which of the actresses in the film could be Elias’ girlfriend. A quick Google search answers his question as he puffs through his cheeks: Mia Braun, a perky blonde with short hair and a dazzling smile, posing on a red carpet. She plays Matilda, the main character’s mentally ill sister. She’s even got her own page on IMDb. Harry skims through her short biography, not quite sure what he’s looking for. She is twenty-five years old; she was born in Germany and she’d studied at the French high school in Düsseldorf before moving to Paris to join a theater school. There, a casting director noticed her and convinced her to go through an audition for one of his projects. She was chosen, and ended up playing in some low-budget show, but soon after, and out of pure luck, she got one of the first roles in Sérénade à deux.

“What’re you looking at, babe?” Louis leans in to have a look at the bright screen of Harry’s phone. “Hm?”

“It’s…”

“Oh, that’s the girl who plays Matilda,” he realizes. “What are you checking her page for… you like her?”

“No,” he replies defensively, turning his phone off. “Thought I’d seen her in some other movie, that’s all.”

“Mh… Well, she _is_ pretty.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, shoving his phone away on the table. They watch the rest of the movie in silence while Louis keeps playing with his hair distractedly. It’s hard not to fall asleep when he’s so comfortable, but he fights to stay awake, falling in and out of sleep. And it’s in this fragile and sensitive state, and with this foul habit he has of shattering silences in the most brutal of ways, that he speaks up, so softly that Louis nearly misses it. “It's not like it used to be.”

“ _Pardon_?” Louis lowers the sound as his fingers come to a still in the midst of his hair.

“I said,” he repeats, just a little louder. “It’s not like it used to be.”

“What are you talking about?” He frowns, and he’s already got sort of a hunch, but for both of their sakes he hopes he’s wrong.

“Us.”

Louis mulls it over for a moment. He looks down, and if he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought Harry was asleep on his lap. He looks so soft and peaceful, all cozy and curled up against him. The last thing Louis wants is for this night to end on a bad note, but lately it’s like he’s been _asking_ for conflict. “We're just getting older... that's all. But I still love you just as much, that hasn’t changed. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing, I mean... Does that make you sad?”

“A little.”

The ending credits slowly roll on the screen, submerging the room in darkness as the theme song resonates through the speakers. Harry’s heart is up his throat and he feels like he might vomit. He even doubts that the highest dose of Zoloft could cure it.

“I honestly don't know what to tell you. What’s wrong?”

“I don't know,” he groans against the fabric of Louis’ trousers. “I miss you.”

“You keep saying that,” he chides as he grows a little annoyed. “It makes no sense.”

“I don’t recognize you sometimes,” he explains. “You keep trying to deny it but you’ve changed, you…”

“Why’re you bringing that up now?” he sighs and reaches for one of the little lamps to click the light on. “We were actually having a good time, why’d you have to go and bloody say- “

“Because that’s how I feel,” he retorts dryly, sitting up straight.

“Why _now_? Do you, like, get a thrill out of ruining the moment?”

“Well why not now, then, when should I bring it up?”

“Never? And besides, it’s not even true.”

“Yes it-”

“Stop it, I mean it,” he threatens harshly. “I’ve not changed at all. This is me; this is who I am. This is who I’ve always been. I’m actually at a better place than I was a few years ago, you do realize that, right? If you don’t like it, Harry, then I… I don’t know what to tell you. I honestly don’t know.”

Harry’s avoiding his stare, his jaw clenched and his throat tight, tears pooling in his eyes. “Don’t get mad at me. I was just telling you how I feel.”

“I'm not mad… don't cry, I'm not upset.”

With the back of his sleeve, Harry wipes away the few tears that have managed to escape and run down his cheeks. With a tiny sniffle, he reaches for his phone and collects himself.

“Go to bed _._ You're way too tired, we'll have this talk some other day.”

“Come to bed with me?”

“Can’t. Got a shit load of work to do. I'll meet you there later, if you’re still up.”

“ _Please_.”

“Harry.” The word is firm, leaving no room for any kind of arguing. Harry understands there’s no use in fighting it, so he flounces out of the room without a glance back.

They hardly talk during the week. It’s tense, the silences are charged with something electric. If they do have to talk, they keep it to a bare minimum, and at night they lie back to back, keeping each to their own. The morning after their fight, Louis had tried to move on and he’d asked him whether he wanted anything from the bakery. Harry had plainly ignored him, deep down aware that it was childish of him to act this way. And since then, it’s been strained.

The thing is, it all seems to be fine by Louis. He’s got his own thing going on, he works, keeps busy, goes out – he doesn’t really need him, and when Harry realizes this, something that vaguely resembles fear starts to take over him.

*

Juliette pops by the gallery on Friday, completely unannounced. They hadn’t seen each other in months ever since she’d moved in with this rich Italian man who’s _twenty_ years older than she is – she’s been living lavish and traveling as she pleases. Sometimes she checks in on him with the occasional ‘Miss you!! How’ve you been??’ text.

She waltzes in around noon, dressed in a fancy designer coat, sun-kissed skin despite the cold season. Harry’s hit with a familiar whiff of her perfume when she runs to kiss him on the cheeks – it revives deeply-buried memories that he would have rather kept hidden. Regardless, he flashes his best smile at her and gives her the warmest welcome, as he knows how to, because he really did miss her.

“Aw, look at you!” she beams, cupping his face between her hands. “You look so good. How are you?”

He blushes a little, his fingers wrapping around her delicate wrists. “Good, I’m good.”

“What have you been up to, then?” she asks, unbuckling the belt around her coat and shrugging it off.

Harry leans against the large reception desk. “Well, working for the most part. We’re pretty busy.”

“Yeah?” she tilts her head. “How do you like it, then?”

“I love it, I really do. It’s loads of work; organizing all the showcases and managing the sales and everything, but I get tons of help and it’s worth all the hassle. And I never get bored, I don’t even feel like I’m doing any work as such.”

“ _Ah, c’est bien. C’est très bien_ , I’m happy for you.”

“Are you still with, uh…What’s his name.”

“Fabrizio,” she says, stressing upon each syllable in a near-perfect Italian accent.

“That’s one hell of a name.”

“A beautiful one, at that!” she giggles. “When we have kids, they’ll all get Italian names. Love how they sound when I pronounce them. But, yeah, we’re still together. Actually, we just came back from Monaco, two days ago. It was a lovely little trip – should’ve gone in the summer, but either way, I’m not complaining. Not to brag or anything but this,” she says, and lowers her voice. “Is my dream life. I’m… his… fucking… princess. I could literally ask him to take me to the Moon and he’ll show up on NASA’s doorstep the next day. But enough about me. How are you? How’s Louis, are you still…”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah, we’re good.”

“Amazing… He’s taking good care of you, isn’t he?”

“Of course. Always.”

“It’s his last year at school, right? That’s what he told me last summer when I saw him.”

“Mh-hm.”

“Said he wanted to open his own firm after graduation. How’s that working out? Surely that must be easier said than done. Especially in Paris. The market’s saturated enough as it is.”

“His… His own firm… Well,” he tries not to let his utter confusion shine through. Louis had never mentioned anything about a firm. “It’s loads of work, I suppose. But he’s got it all under control. He’s good.”

“That’s such great news! So happy for you both.” Harry fakes a smile, and he’s grateful she ends up changing the topic. “By the way, how’s your nephew? I saw the pictures on Gemma’s Instagram, I nearly cried. Such an angel… And he looks so much like you, I want to _eat him_!”

Harry doesn’t lose a second and pulls his phone out, running her through the endless stream of pictures of Milo he’s got stored in his camera roll. Juliette doesn’t bring Louis up again, so to keep it that way, he shows her around the gallery. She ends up buying one of the works from the permanent collection and signs to get it delivered to Fabrizio’s place – a charming _Haussmannian_ apartment with a stunning view on the Eiffel tower, something so few people can afford and that she has every reason to flaunt and boast about. Before she heads off, she pulls him into a tight hug and whispers to him just how glad she is that he’s _finally happy_. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so he settles for a quiet thank you, and a spoken promise that those days were behind him.

They promise to meet again soon. Juliette leaves, and just as he’s about to go out for lunch, he gets a new message.

**From: Elias**

_Hi. Got plans tonight?_

**To: Elias**

_Hey. Nothing planned for now. Why?_

**From: Elias**

_Mia is in Marseille, they’re shooting a new movie. Come over for dinner, I'll be your personal chef. Let me send you the address._

**To: Elias**

_Can I decline?_

**From: Elias**

_No, you can't. Unless you have a valid reason, in which case, I'm listening..._

**To: Elias**

_I don't have any._

_PS: I’m vegan._

**From: Elias**

_This is the 6 th time you’ve told me that_

**To: Elias**

_... What time tonight?_

**From: Elias**

_6:30. I live in the 5 th: 42, rue Galande. Conveniently located right above the Studio Galande._

**To: Elias**

_Perfect. See you tonight x_

When he gets home that same evening, he refuses to think it through. He hops in the shower and changes clothes, rummaging through his closet and trying on at least five different outfits. Louis hasn’t come home, and all the better for that, he wouldn’t know how to explain himself. He whips up something quick and easy for Louis’ dinner, tucking it in a corner of the fridge before snatching his keys and bolting down the stairs before he changes his own mind.

Elias and Mia’s place is kind of crowded, but it’s quite charming. It’s the kind of messy where everything seems to be at its rightful place. A large bookshelf stretches across an entire wall, with about two hundred books arranged in alphabetical order, ranging from the essentials of art history to collections of poems, French classics and famous biographies. There’s a record player on top of a shelf, right by a pile of old vinyls – a collection they’ve built over time, adding to it whenever they came back from thrifting.

Elias is busy cooking dinner in the kitchen, so he tells Harry to make himself at home, to choose any record he wants. Naturally, Harry starts flicking through their hefty collection. His fingers freeze and his heart drops as he spots _Édith Piaf à l’Olympia._ It was one of the few albums he and Louis possess. They played it on the first night they spent at their new place, they danced together in the kitchen, carried by the sultry voice that had made Paris so famous, the same voice and songs that have made people all over the world yearn to live as they do, in a city that embodies love and luxury and everything sweet.

It would feel wrong to have it play tonight. Deep down, he knows he shouldn’t really be here. So he selects a random record from the pile and throws it on the player before venturing into the kitchen to give him a hand.

They chat and laugh over little bottles of Kronenbourg beer while waiting for dinner to be done. Harry leans against the railing in the open window overlooking the lively little street. Just a story below, people are queuing up for the evening show at the Studio Galande. Harry leans backward, a satisfied smile stretching his lips as he tilts his head to look at the tiny crowd. It’s a beautiful night.

“Careful,” Elias warns him, lowering the fire. “Wouldn’t want you to lose your balance. It’d be a nasty fall.”

“I’m rock solid. Don’t worry.”

“Doubt that,” Elias glances over at him with a sly grin.

Harry cracks up, bringing the bottle to his lips and downing the rest in one gulp. “I really am.”

“Sure… Could you give me the lemon juice, please? It's in the fridge… Somewhere in the door, with the sauces.”

“’Course.”

He shuffles over to the fridge and stops himself. There’s a little picture stuck to the door with an artisanal magnet from Berlin. It’s Elias and Mia together on the stairs facing the Sacré-Cœur Basilica, sometime in the winter. She’s kissing him on the cheek, an arm wrapped around his midsection. “How long have you known her for? Mia.”

“Four years.”

Harry pulls the door open and hands him the lemon juice. “Does she, uh…does she support you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, your work… does she…”

“Oh, yes. Very much so. She’s not that familiar with art history, you know, all the periods and movements and styles, but she’s interested in what I do and she’s extremely supportive. Sometimes she’ll insist on tagging along if I feel like going to a museum or… or some very niche exhibition that most people wouldn’t see the appeal of. She watches documentaries on TV, she reads a lot, she _wants_ to learn more about it, and I think it’s beautiful. And she does it all of her own free will.”

Harry sets down the little glass bottle on the counter and takes a seat in front of the little square table by the wall. His fingers start playing with a salt shaker as he tries to assess the whole thing. Dinner’s almost ready, if the savory blend of smells is anything to go by.

His phone starts buzzing in his back pocket. He retrieves it quickly. Louis’ name flashes on the screen, along with what he’s deemed to be his favorite picture of him. It was taken three years ago. He was lying on Harry’s old bed, back when he used to live alone, and he’s looking straight at the camera but it’s obvious he’s just woken up. His hair’s a mess and he’s all groggy, and that was when Harry liked to smother him with kisses.

He hangs up and turns his phone off completely.

“What’s wrong?” Elias asks after noticing what he’d just done.

“Nothing.”

“Who was it?”

“…My boyfriend.”

Elias spins on his heels, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Didn’t you say…”

“I lied,” he admits, avoiding his eyes.

“Why? Did you think I was going to judge you ‘cause he’s a man?”

“No. I don’t know,” he admits frankly. “I don’t know why I said that.”

He knows Elias is smarter than that. He’d just given himself away and there was no going back. Still, Elias doesn’t pry, he plays it off casually and says, “So, you have a boyfriend.”

“Oui.”

“What's his name?”

Harry tears off a small piece of not-so-fresh bread that had been left there and chews on it. “His name’s Louis.”

“How very French,” he notices with a smirk. “What does he do for a living?”

“Oh, he’s still…”

Elias’ phone starts ringing before he can answer. He apologizes with a hand gesture and picks up. He starts speaking a language that Harry doesn’t understand, and which could only logically be Arabic. His voice sounds a bit different and Harry finds himself listening in attentively, his elbow propped on the table, chin resting in the hollow of his palm. He can hear the faint voice of a woman over the phone. It’s fascinating to say the least, watching him speak another language as naturally and fluidly as he did in French. He mentions Mia twice, though Harry can’t tell what it’s about. He tucks his phone between his ear and his shoulder while he’s talking, and whispers to him that dinner’s ready before resuming his conversation. They set the table together; Elias hangs up just as he’s about to serve.

“That was my mum,”, he explains, filling Harry's plate. “She asked me if I was planning on coming home for Christmas.”

“You celebrate Christmas?” he points out naively as he grinds some pepper over his plate.

Elias frowns, and a small, confused smile sketches itself on his lips. “My family’s Christian, Harry. I’ve lost my faith a long time ago – but they don’t need to know that, so I still celebrate with them. Egypt's Christian population is actually the largest in the Middle East, if you can believe it.”

“’M sorry… Just thought….”

“Is it because I speak Arabic?” he asks with a little mocking smile.

“No? I… I mean, yes? Really, I’m sorry, I’m completely clueless.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he assures him at takes a seat in front of him. “The more you know. Let’s eat! Bon appétit.”

“Bon appétit,” he returns, digging in at last.

“What do you usually drink? I’ve got a bit of everything. I’m no wine expert but Mia knows her stuff. We’ve got a full cabinet.”

They share a bottle of red and Harry pours himself a generous glass. He forgets all about his switched off phone, pushing aside all thoughts of Louis as soon as they materialize. He knows he must be at least a little worried. It was very unlike Harry to go out without warning him beforehand, let alone decline his calls. But he doesn’t care right now. He feels good, a warm, fuzzy feeling washing over him as he fills his third glass of the night. Elias tells him all about his childhood in Cairo, his family’s little quirks, his six siblings, and their house in a neighborhood where everyone knew each other. Elias switches the vinyl when the first one nears its end, swapping it for the Best of Ella Fitzgerald. At the end of the meal, they drift into the living room and end up sharing the small couch.

“Here,” Elias scrolls down his camera roll and pulls up an old picture where he’s sitting at the beach among four other kids. “That’s me in the middle. I was seventeen at the time, it was the summer before I moved to Paris. That was… Jesus. Eleven years ago.” Harry leans in to have a look, and he hates to admit it but God, had they met when he was younger, he would’ve most certainly had the biggest crush on seventeen-year-old Elias. “On my right, that’s Shani, my little sister. She actually wanted to come with me but my dad forced her to stay… Hid her passport and everything.”

“Why?”

“I guess… He hated the idea that, somewhere, a girl could be free to do whatever she wants. That was him; tough on the girls, lenient with the boys… On a lighter note, though, she left by her own means when she turned twenty. She lives in the South, now, right outside Marseille. Have you ever been there?”

“Yeah, once. Went there with my boyfriend two years ago. It’s a charming place. They don’t seem to like Parisians that much. Funny accent, too.”

“She’s caught it on pretty quickly. She hates talking on the phone with me because I always make fun of her for it.”

The conversation drifts off toward this book on the coffee table – a philosophical tale that Harry had to study in his uni years. It’s getting late and they’re both pretty tipsy, so Elias just settles back and listens to Harry’s endless ramble about how this book singlehandedly changed his outlook on life. He lets him speak, watching his lips move as he scoots a little closer. He wraps his fingers around Harry’s exposed ankle, his thumb gently stroking his skin. Harry notices of course, lowering his eyes to where they touched without ever interrupting the flow of his words. They gravitate towards each other over time, slowly deviating from all the philosophical talk as their voices get deeper and quieter. Elias says to him, ‘Tell me about yourself.’ So at first, he’s reluctant. He’s got some skeletons in his closet that he’d rather keep hidden. But they’re so close and Elias has been so open with him, and he’s looking at him with so much intent that he feels a surge of heat in his cheeks. Harry tells him he hasn’t got much to say, that his life has been most ordinary, that he has a small family, a rather quiet life. He skims over his tumultuous teen years, conveniently leaving aside his depression and the devastating effects it has had on him, how it has stolen years of his life. In any case, he can barely remember any of it.

“You know,” Elias says, “I’ve noticed you tend to underestimate yourself a lot. You keep trying to belittle all your achievements. It’s a shame. Where’s this lack of self-esteem coming from?”

“Ooh… You want to roleplay as my therapist?” he whispers, leaning closer.

“Why not? Tell me about your relationship with your mother”, he says, with a devilish little smile.

“Dr. Freud… welcome back among us. You look quite young. Now, tell me again how it’s my mum’s fault that I’ve turned out like this.”

“I mean, Freud was just a glorified cokehead sex addict… I hope you’re not taking any of his shit seriously.”

“I know…God, he was such a pervert, if you think about it,” he chuckles softly, fingers idly playing with his ring as he recalls a dark time in his life where he genuinely used to believe everything that man had ever said.

“Honestly, though,” Elias reaches out his hand and gently pushes a stray strand of hair aside, tucking it behind his ear. “I like you… I think you’re really interesting. You’re not as… insignificant as you’re trying to make it sound. No wonder people are always drawn to you, I’ve seen it… You give off this… Light.” Harry struggles to contain his smile. Elias starts stroking his knuckles over his cheek as a shiver runs down his spine. Harry tries to maintain eye contact. Elias’ eyes are his favorite thing about him. They’re stunning, is what they are. He wishes he could tell him, but perhaps that would be crossing a line. “You’re fucking beautiful. Your boyfriend’s one lucky man. I hope he realizes that.”

Harry just shakes his head slowly. “Don’t want to talk about him.”

“Oh, yeah?” he whispers, sliding his fingers against his cheek. “Why not?” he asks, taking obvious satisfaction in playing innocent. They’ve both caught on to the situation – there was absolutely no going back.

“Please. Don’t bring him up again.”

“Fine by me,” he murmurs as his thumb migrates to his lips, tracing over them ever so softly. Harry takes him by surprise as he presses a kiss to the tip of his finger. “ _Putain_ …”

A devilish smile lifts a corner of Harry’s lips. He’s plainly aware of the effect he was having on him and he keeps pushing the line further and further away, though he would never cross it on his own. Elias takes over when he feels he’s had enough. He leans in and presses his lips against his, just lingering there, barely moving. Harry starts to feel sick to his stomach straight away. He pushes him away, gently at first. He’s hit with a slight dizzy spell; the vinyl is over, it’s dreadfully quiet now. 

“It’s okay,” Elias reassures him. “No one needs to know. C’mere.” He says, wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck to draw him in. They kiss for what seems like hours; Harry’s mouth still tastes of wine, why would he stop? They kiss like they’re starved, pulling apart only long enough to breathe, the sound of their lips smacking together loud enough to resonate throughout the flat. Overcome with the heat, Harry swings a leg over Elias’ waist and sits on his lap, feeling the older man’s hands running up and down his sides. The weight of his guilt roughly compares to that of his phone in his back pocket. And now, if he’s honest, it doesn’t weigh much.

Elias helps him pull his shirt off and reattaches their lips, more fiercely and impatiently than ever. He mouths along his jawline, moving down his neck while Harry fumbles blindly with the buckle of his belt.

The rest of the night is just a blur, and when Harry awakes a few hours later, he’s got no clue where he is or what time it is. This bedroom is practically unknown territory; a bedside lamp is on, but it’s still dark outside. It takes him a while to recall exactly how he’s landed there, as he’s still a little out of it. He registers that he’s completely naked, and feels the weight of an arm upon his back. He’s lying in Elias’ arms and he can feel him breathing. He can tell he’s asleep, watching as his chest rises and falls ever so slowly. He struggles to straighten up as he pushes his arm off of him. Elias only reacts by shifting away. Harry reaches blindly under the bed, feeling the floor to find his jeans. He fishes his phone from his back pocket and turns it on, wiping the sleep off of his eyes with the heel of his hand as the Apple logo flashes to life. As soon as it’s up and running, three messages pop up on his screen, one after the other. The first had been sent shortly after his call, the second one an hour later, the last one at midnight.

**From: Lou**

_what was that for? why’d you decline the call_

**From: Lou**

_where are you? everything ok? i’m getting worried_

**From: Lou**

_babe i know you're giving me the silent treatment right now, just want to know where you are and if you’re ok & then you can go back to ignoring me. _

If he was even half sober, he would’ve likely worked himself into a panic by now, but he’s not even close to that, so he just stares stupidly at his screen before clicking it shut and running a hand down his face, just two seconds away from falling right back asleep. He picks his clothes up and starts getting dressed against his own will. As the bed dips and the mattress creaks, Elias stirs awake. He mumbles in a hoarse, half-asleep voice, “Where’re you going?”

“I'm going home,” he says, pulling his jeans up his legs.

“... Stay,” he drawls. “Make you breakfast in the morning.”

“I’ve really got to go home,” he insists while putting his sweater back on. “M’gonna call an Uber.”

“Mm... Lock the door.”

Harry glances over his shoulders; Elias hasn’t even moved and it looks like he’s already gone back to sleep, so he just sits there and stares at him, eyelids heavy and mind clouded. And he likes what he sees; the slender body he’d felt against his own, the arms that have held him, the hands that have touched him, caressed him, grabbed him and left marks all over his body, the hair he’d grasped onto – all of it. He remembers everything, and he mostly remembers just how delightful it had been to be held by him and to feel valued and desired like never before. It was a relief, in some sense, to know that he was still desirable, that he hadn’t lost his spark, this little something that had made so many men lust after him in his wildest years. He used to thrive under their eyes, he used to act like their little compliments didn’t affect him when really he’d feed off of them. It’s clear, now, it’s not his fault if Louis doesn’t want him anymore. He can rest assured that he’ll find affection and intimacy on every street corner.

*

The next morning, he wakes up to Louis’ voice. “Babe…Baby, wake up … Why’d you sleep on the couch? What happened?” The couch dips on one side as Louis sits down next to him. Harry rubs his eyes and buries himself deeper underneath the blanket; his head is throbbing and the light is just a little too bright. Louis has his hand on his shoulder. “You came home late yesterday, I was worried all night about you. Will you talk to me?”

“Was with friends,” he mumbles as Louis starts massaging his shoulder blades. “We had this… get together thing in the 5th… Drank too much, didn’t realize how much time had passed… ‘M sorry, should’ve called you.”

“You went out? That’s good,” he praised. “I’m glad you went out. Did you have fun?” Harry doesn’t answer. Louis starts stroking his hair and strangely enough, Harry finds the gesture oddly inappropriate. They’d barely talked in the last few days. He looks up at him and wonders if the tenderness in Louis’ eyes isn’t just a coverup for something else. He wonders if there’s a way he can read his mind; if he knows; if he suspects something. “Why didn’t you come to bed with me, hm?”

“Didn’t want to wake you.”

“You know I wouldn’t have minded. I come home late, too, sometimes, it’s only fair… You hungry?”

“A little.”

“Let me get breakfast started then.” He stands up and opens the tall white shutters, a small breeze along with the steady hum of the city streaming in through the window. He disappears into the kitchen, and Harry can hear him rummaging through the cupboards. He stretches on the sofa, his face still half squished against a pillow and his hair is all over the place. He reaches for the remote and turns the TV on to find himself facing the news.

_“ … because shareholders receive dividends from groups that are doing well, like the FDJ: a company that Bercy could still sell a part of, as it owns roughly 70% of the capital. Another candidate for disengagement is the Paris airports group, a…”_

He keeps on switching channels mindlessly, eyes fixed on the screen and glazed over; he hears the voices but doesn’t listen. It’s all become a bit foggy. He’d hoped the TV would get his mind off of it, but it’s just making it worse so he turns it off, fingers idly toying with the remote. There’s a tightness in his chest as he’s hit with a succession of flashbacks from last night. He ponders the situation, wonders how badly it would go if he just straight up told him everything. Then what? They’ll break up on the spot and he’ll be all alone again, he’ll lose the only person who’s been by his side all these years, he’ll lose what he’s convinced is the absolute love of his life. But maybe it doesn’t have to be like this. Louis doesn’t have to know – and if he doesn’t tell him, there’s no way he’ll find out.

He’s still weighing his options when Louis walks in carrying a tray in his hands. He sets it down on the coffee table, knowing that Harry won’t eat right away. “Scoot over, babe?”

Harry sits up reluctantly, keeping the blanket snug around him. Louis sits beside him, bringing a hand up to his face, tenderly brushing his thumb along his cheekbone. Harry has to stop himself from pulling away, seized by the irrational fear that Louis just might sense that someone else has touched him there last night.

“What’s going on? Still won’t talk to me?” Harry finally brings himself to look him in the eye. He’s so close to spilling everything, his eyes are prickling with tears. “Come on, baby, let’s stop this. Hate it when we fight… If there’s something you want to tell me, I’m listening. I won’t cut you off, I won’t go off on you.”

He swallows dryly. “I have nothing to say.”

“Well. In this case, let me just say… I’m sorry. I haven’t been very nice to you. Look, I made you breakfast… Your favorite, isn’t it? That black bean burrito you like so much?” Harry tries – and fails – to contain his smile. Louis pulls him in and presses a kiss to his left cheek, smiling against his skin. “Are we good?”

“Mhm.”

“Right… Another thing, though. Don’t decline my calls and leave me hanging, please. I was worried. Like… Properly worried, I was actually about to phone your mum, I didn’t know what else to do. I thought you’d… I just thought of the worst thing possible.”

“You don’t need to be afraid. And please don’t ever ring my mum about that, I’ve just gotten her off my back… Call Gem if you must, but… Either way, there’s no need to worry. I’m okay.”

“How can I be sure?”

“Because I promise you that. I promised my mum, I promised my sister, I promise you. I’m doing loads better now.”

Louis looks like he’s still debating the matter with himself. “All right,” he whispers. “I believe you.”

Just then, Harry's phone starts ringing on the table. He freezes, his breath getting caught in his throat.

“Aren't you going to pick it up?” Louis reaches for the phone. “Who’s… Elias?”

“He’s, uh… One of the artists who’s getting exposed in the next showcase.” He explains calmly, watching in horror as the little device keeps on ringing.

“Well, answer him?” he prompts, handing him the phone.

“No.” he says. “It must be about the pricing. Don’t feel like doing this over the phone.

Louis frowns in confusion, but the doorbell rings before he has a chance to reply. “Go open the door, babe, please.”

Harry shrugs off the blanket and shuffles out of the living room. As soon as he’s out of his field, Louis tries to unlock the phone, to no avail. He’s stuck on the lock screen, staring at the missed call. Suddenly, two messages pop up, and they’re both from the same man.

**From: Elias**

_Hi. Just wanted to know if you got home okay last night. I would’ve given you a ride but I was clearly too drunk. Anyway, thanks for coming, it was lovely seeing you._

**From: Elias**

_Will stop by the gallery on Wednesday. I was told I had to come but no one told me what time_

He rereads the first message a couple of times, glancing at the door to make sure Harry doesn’t catch him. Something about it doesn’t sound right but he can’t quite put his finger on it. It adds up to what Harry had told him, but he gets the feeling that there might be more to it than he lets on. Before he can overthink things, Harry shuts the door. Louis puts the phone back where it was as Harry walks back in.

“Some lady from the third floor. Says she got our mail by mistake,” he explains as he drops a pile of letters on the table. “Want to open them? It looks important.”

“I’ll read them later. Come here,” he motions for him to sit down, so Harry does, curling up against him as Louis wraps an arm around his back, pulling him close. “Can I ask you a question?”

He feels him stiffening under his touch. And that seems to happen a tad too often. “Sure.”

“I want your honest answer. I mean it, it’s a real question. Don’t want you to say yes just to make me happy, or because you don’t want to hurt me, or you’re scared or whatever.”

“What is it?”

“Babe, are you happy with me?”

“Why are you asking?” Harry tilts his head, visibly worried.

“Just curious.”

“Well, yes… Of course. I’m really happy with you. Are you doubting it?”

“Don’t know.”

“I promise you,” he whispers. “I love you more than life. I’m so happy with you.”

Louis doesn’t smile at him, but something about him just seems to soften up. The blue of his eyes is disturbingly calm. “All right. Go on then, eat your breakfast, it’ll get cold.”

Satisfied with his reaction, Harry happily digs in. “Have you eaten yet?”

Louis leans over to kiss him on the cheek, “Yeah, don't worry about it. How was your night?”

“Don't remember much,” he lies. “Must’ve blacked out at some point,” he explains, still chewing with his mouth full.

“How’d you get back here?”

“Uber. I made dinner, by the way. Did you find it? I put it in the fridge, it must’ve been hidden behind the…”

“Yes,” Louis interrupts him with a chuckle. “Don’t worry about me, _mon amour_. Even if you hadn’t, I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, ‘course… But I like cooking for you. Couldn’t just leave without fixing you a plate.”

“Aren’t you just the man of my life, then…”

Harry breaks into a smile, and as a sudden boost of confidence hits him, he leaves his plate aside and goes to straddle his lap, throwing his arms around his neck. “The man of your life, huh?”

Louis gives a small nod, and Harry kisses him, smiling against his lips. “Yeah,” Louis breathes in between kisses. “I mean… I won’t marry you, but you’re the man of my life.” Harry breaks them apart, holding his gaze, waiting for an explanation. “Look…I won't marry anyone,” he explains, sliding his hands over Harry’s waist. “I don't even want to get married.” And it’s all it takes for Harry’s smile to falter. Louis’ fingers start playing with a loose curl by his ear. “What is it? Were you considering it?”

“No, I…” he mutters as his eyes drop to his lap. “Or maybe. I don’t know.”

“You bought me a ring, didn't ya?”

“ _Non_."

“Well then… what are you brooding for?”

“But why?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“Think about it, for a second, babe. Marriage is a union before God. What does that even mean to you? You don't believe in God. And isn’t it that same God who supposedly hates us and wants to see us burn? Don’t you think it defeats the whole purpose? We don’t need that to be happy. I love you, you love me, no need to get the state involved, or anyone else for that matter.”

“I mean. People fought for that right. It must mean something. And besides, we might just lose it, if Capel goes through with his electoral promises.”

“You and Capel, Jesus. Man’s a bloody loser. He’s all bluster, won’t do shit. And yes, people might’ve fought for it, might be getting engaged left and right for whatever reason, but that’s their business. They get married, they have kids… But we’re here, you and me. And we’re good together aren’t we, lovely?” he prompts, running his hands along his sides, stroking his skin beneath his shirt.

“If you say so.”

“Does that make you sad?”

“A bit,” he confesses with a little pout and proceeds to rub Louis’ shoulders, running his hands up and down his bare arms. “I _really_ want a kid. A little boy… Want him to look just like you. Can you imagine? Wouldn’t you like that?”

“I don’t want kids and you know it,” he says, low and firm. “We’ve been over this. We’ve _fought_ over this. So what now, you want to bring it up again? You’re not getting a different answer, no matter how you try to word it babe. I don’t want us to fight.”

“I know,” he says, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry.”

“Drop it, once and for all. That’s the one thing I can’t give you. We don’t _need_ that.”

Harry just nods, defeated. This feels like another nail in the coffin of something bigger than he can articulate. They’ve scarcely made up and ruining it is the last thing he wants, so he gives him a kiss and gets off his lap. “Gonna do some laundry. Anything you want me to wash?”

*

The gallery’s team is hustling to try and meet the deadlines before the December exhibition. The rooms that have been left empty for months have now been brought to life, the walls lined with paintings and oversized photographs, the floor saturated with all kinds of sculptures. The technicians are busy calibrating the projectors to try and get the animations to fit perfectly in their designated space.

Harry strolls around the place to get an overview of the display, stopping to answer any questions the artists might have. They discuss final touches, sharing tips on how to build a solid network with the guests who will attend the vernissage.

Elias is there, too, though he seems to want to keep to himself. He walks alone through the rooms with his hands behind his back and his head held high, indifferent to the works on display in an almost arrogant, conceited way – a sort of disinterest that stems from the unfounded assurance that his place is secured, that he should no longer waste time with all the useless formalities. He’s got Harry wrapped around his finger, and he trusts he will do what is necessary to make him stand out. He ventures out of the exhibition section, winding up in a remote, silent hallway. Out the corner of his eye, he sees Harry retreating into his office. He follows him without a second thought. He knocks at his door, and Harry lets him in without even saying anything.

“Are you busy?” Elias asks, pulling the door shut behind himself.

“Depends,” he sits on the edge of his wooden desk, his hands supporting his weight as he leans backward a little and spreads his legs, motioning for him to come over with a simple head gesture. Elias complies blindly. He steps closer, lodging himself between his legs, holding his face and kissing him hard. He slides one hand into Harry's curls while the other remains secure around his throat, angling the kiss. Harry keeps his hands to himself the entire time. Elias starts kissing down his jaw on his way to his neck. “No hickeys,” Harry warns quietly.

“M’ not fifteen, I know,” he mutters as he mouths along his neck, his hands fumbling with Harry’s belt. “M’gonna bend you over that desk, show you how it’s done.”

“Please…” he whimpers, throwing his head back.

“Begging for it… fuck, if he knew...”

There's a curt knock on the door before they even have the chance to do anything. They both straighten up quickly. Harry struggles to buckle his belt and hurries to open the door. It’s one of his colleagues. “Someone for you at the door. Says he’s your boyfriend.”

“Oh,” he says, his cheeks impossibly hot and burning to the touch. He runs a hand through his hair and glances over his shoulder, beckoning to him to leave, so Elias complies, but not before he’s practically devoured him with his eyes, a silent promise that this was not over. “I... I’ll be here in a minute, thank you.”

The man just nods and disappears down the hallway, Elias following closely behind. He glances back at Harry, eyeing him down in a plain predatory way.

Harry readjusts himself in his trousers as he heads toward the entrance. Sure enough, Louis is waiting for him, leaning against the empty reception desk.

“Hi,” Harry says, cursing himself for how shaky his voice had sounded. “Didn’t know you were coming by.”

Louis gives him a faint smile, “I wanted to surprise you. Bad time? You look rough.”

“No, of course not,” he leans in for a small kiss, placing a hand on Louis’ hip. “Come on. Let me show you how it looks so far. You’ve already met everyone.”

“Sure.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Lou,” he says, ushering him around the rooms. He runs him through the theme, drawing a short presentation of each piece of work in the simplest terms possible. Louis remains disturbingly silent, content with observing his surroundings and nodding once in a while. Harry takes note of the way he stares at each male artist but doesn’t think too much of it. They stop in the last room, where _L’Innocence Nue_ is exposed, and stand side by side in front of the large, gilded-framed painting. “My personal favorite.”

Louis glimpses at him, and then steps closer to have a look at the little plaque. _Elias Sharaz_. Harry smiles innocently at him.

“So _that’s_ Elias,” Louis concludes.

“Yes.”

“You and him. You’re close, aren’t you?”

And that’s when Harry realizes that his little impromptu visit at the gallery wasn’t all that spontaneous. That he might have only come here to confirm some of his doubts. He can't let that happen. Right then, Louis spots a young man who just entered the room, accompanied by one of Harry’s colleagues. He’s never even seen the bloke before, but for some obscure reason he just knows it’s him – he’s looking at them.

Louis turns his attention back to Harry, expectantly.

“It’s mostly professional,” he says, defensively. “I like his work. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Most of the artists we meet greatly lack introspection. He’s very in touch with himself, and that shows in his work. We just… Discuss it.”

“That him, over there in the corner? Black shirt?”

Harry spots him in turn. He meets his eyes, Elias smiles and turns around before disappearing out the door. “Yeah.”

“Call me paranoid, but I don’t like the way he looked at you. And he calls your personal number, early in the morning… supposedly about work stuff that should be dealt with right here… Not very professional, is it?”

“We’re friends,” he replies, resolutely. “All right. You’re the one who wanted me to have more friends, or whatever that was. Is this what you came all the way to Montmartre for? This could’ve been a text message, if that’s all you wanted to tell me.”

“No. This isn’t what I came for,” he says, calmly. “I’d like to take you out for lunch. Can you take a break?”

“…Sure. Let me get my things, I’ll be right back. Wait for me at the door.”

They leave la Halle des Vignes together. Harry takes his hand out of habit, lacing their fingers together as they walk down the steep stairs that lead to the foot of the hill. Louis’ hand is loose in his grip, like he couldn’t care less if they were holding hands or not. Halfway down the stairs, Harry realizes it, so he takes his hand back and buries it in his coat pocket, feeling something sharp tugging at his chest.

It’s misty and chilly, like a walk on the beach after the fog rolls in; the cold air bites at Harry’s cheeks and the tip of his nose is a little red. “Where are we going?” he asks

 _“Nous Quatre_. It’s somewhere in the 12th. I’ve been there with a friend once, it was lovely. They’ve got loads of vegan options.”

“Didn't you have class today?”

“I did. I finished at eleven, thought I’d swing by since I’ve got nothing else planned for now.”

Harry’s attempt at making conversation ends there. Louis keeps busy on his phone during the entire bus ride, only looking up once in a while to assess their surroundings, plainly ignoring him. 

They are quickly seated when they get to the eatery; the place is small and quite unlike the typical high-end restaurants they go to for their dates. This one has a very homey feeling to it, but despite the loveliness of the place, they still haven’t said a word to each other. The waitress comes up and hands them a menu and a card of selected wines to match. Louis smiles at her a lot, he even makes her laugh; and not those fake, forced laughs that customers usually elicit from them. He has a knack for enchanting people, and that includes complete strangers. But as soon as she walks away from their table, Louis’ face falls, like he’d never had a smile on to begin with, like a mask has just vanished. Harry hasn’t dared to speak up just yet, he settles for scanning the menu, stealing furtive, hasty glances at him every now and then. Eventually someone would have to pipe up.

“Um,” Harry clears his throat. “Number eight looks… good. And it comes with a salad. What do you think?”

“Mh, dunno,” he mumbles, his cheek resting in the palm of his hand as his eyes scan through the carboard menu. “I want fries. Something greasy and disgusting, that’s what I need. It’s so cold outside.”

Harry just shrugs. The waitress comes back to take their order and when Louis pulls out his phone and starts scrolling aimlessly through whatever social media app that he’s on, Harry gets the hint. He peers around, taking in his surroundings. He sees this young couple by the window, and they’ve got the _stupidest_ smiles on their faces. The man playfully feeds his girlfriend with his own fork, and Harry finds it plainly gross. There’s also this family in a corner, their two kids are doodling on sheets of paper, a stack of crayons strewn about their table as they wait for their meals.

“Aren’t you eating?” Louis remarks, pointing at Harry’s plate with his own fork. He’d been so caught up in his daydream he hasn’t even realized the waitress had brought their plates.

“Yeah,” he says. “ _Bon appétit_.”

“You too.”

He digs into the salad first, and Louis finally makes the first step.

“I spoke to Charlotte on the phone earlier.”

“Oh, you did?” he says, his voice just an octave higher than usual as he tries to sound overly interested and get Louis to _engage_ with him.

“Mm. She asked me if I… If _we_ , had any plans for Christmas, so I said no, and she suggested we join her on a trip. Her boyfriend’s family owns this beautiful cottage in Avoriaz… Some ski resort in Haute-Savoie. Apparently, she’s told everyone already, think I was the last one on her list. Anyway. We might spend the holidays there. You’re invited of course. I want you to be there.”

“That sounds nice. I’ll give her a call,” he smiles, stabbing his fork into the last cherry tomato in his bowl. “We should go visit Dan and the kids in the suburbs this weekend, haven’t seen them in a while.”

“No, yeah, we’re definitely going soon. Just need to get ahead on my coursework by Friday. It’ll be nice to get away from Paris for a bit,” he thinks to himself, cutting through a hearty piece of lasagna. “Back to this cottage thing, forgot to mention. Feel free to invite your family. Your parents are welcome, and if I’m not mistaken, I think the place is big enough to accommodate Gem and her side of the family. Bet Milo would love all the snow.”

“Oh, he would.”

“That’d be lovely, wouldn’t it? Christmas with both of our families. _Maman_ would have loved it. She always used to talk about the Alps.”

“Yeah, it’s beautiful in the winter.”

Louis doesn't add to that. The rest of the meal is relatively quiet, except when the waitress comes back to make sure everything is to their liking.

“You know, the other day, when I was at work,” Harry starts, carefully. “Juliette came by.”

Louis raises his eyebrows in cautious interest, sipping on a glass of ice-cold water. It’s not that he doesn’t like Juliette, but knowing that she and Harry saw each other alone doesn’t particularly please him.

“She just came to check on me,” he specifies. “And… she asked about you, wanted to know how you were doing, and how you were handling this whole… firm project thing. I was a little embarrassed, I didn’t know what to say because you never told me about it.” Louis remains impassive for a few seconds, like maybe he’s trying to come up with an excuse, instead he keeps on eating and Harry insists, growing a little irritated. “You're not saying anything?”

“Thought I mentioned it. Must’ve forgotten.”

“I mean, it’s a huge deal. That’s… Louis, you must’ve been working on this for months. Why didn’t you tell me? Maybe I can help, I know lots of people in many different fields, I have connections. And you know that. I don't understand you.”

“If I don't tell you about it, maybe it's because I’d rather work on my own, it's no big deal. If I needed your help, I would have asked for it, you know that.”

“You told _Juliette_ about it.”

“I did,” he confirms, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “We were talking, she was asking questions, one thing led to another, my project was brought up.”

“I ask you questions too. You just avoid them.”

“Right,” he drops his fork on his plate. “You want to turn _this,_ into an argument? Look. We’re in public, keep it nice, yeah?”

“I don’t want to argue. I just… Just wanted to address something bigger than that. You never tell me anything.”

“ _I_ never tell you anything? Are you being serious?”

“You barely talked since we left the gallery.”

“Well we’re talking right now, aren’t we? Isn't that enough for you?”

Harry doesn’t answer. He just lowers his head and starts sorting his food, and Louis lets out a long sigh.

“God… I hate this. Why are you like this? I took time out of my day to see you, I took you out for lunch because I wanted to spend time with you and you just…”

“Well if spending time with me is such a chore for you, stop forcing yourself to do it.”

“Do you hear yourself? You’re the one who ruined everything, it’s all on you. You got yourself all worked up, and for what? _”_

Before this gets anymore out of hand, Harry shuts down as he usually does. He finishes eating, muscles tight and his eyes filled to the brim with tears that threaten to roll down his cheeks. He can't cry, Louis' right, they _are_ in public. Louis goes back to ignoring him until he’s finished his meal in turn. He calls their waitress over, she asks them if they want a separate bill, and just to spite him, just to show him that he’s got the upper hand and always will, he says he’ll pay for both of them. When the bill is settled, he stands from his chair and slides his arms into his coat. “I'm going out. Don't wait for me tonight.”

And on that note, he storms out, leaving Harry alone at the table.

*

That same evening, not much to his surprise, Harry comes back to an empty house. It doesn’t take him long to break down. It seems absurd, and a bit irrational to have a total meltdown after such a small argument – after all, they’ve had bigger fights and survived through them, but this is just the last straw. Truth be told, he's exhausted. It's wearing him thin, this non-stop bickering, these out of proportion rows over petty little things, really. He loves Louis to death, of that he was sure, and he really wishes he knew where things had gone wrong and how to fix them, if he could. Although it hurts to do so, he can't help comparing their situation to how their lives were when they had just started dating. Back then, and as was the reality for most couples, they were living nothing less than a dream, as if on their own little cloud, somewhere in paradise, sheltered from the harsh realities of long-term commitment and everyday hardships. They’d go on dates every other night, they’d spend more time in bed than out of it and rarely ever put clothes on when they were inside. They’d sing along to all the French oldies on Radio Nostalgie and cook vegan meals together and drink the best cheap wines they could find on the market and binge watch old Hollywood movies at night until they fell asleep in Harry’s old couch in his tiny living room.

Now he's lucky if Louis even feels like spending his evening with him. If he deigns to give him the time of day, Harry always feels like he has to fight to keep his attention lest he get bored with him.

He’s lost track of time but he’s aware it’s getting late. It’s already dark outside and he doesn’t know how long he’s been sobbing on the couch with all the lights off.

His phone goes off and he lets it ring when he reads Elias’ name on the screen. Elias calls back once, and when he doesn’t pick up, he sends him a single message.

**From: Elias**

_Come over, beautiful. Mia will be back tomorrow night, won’t be having the place to myself for a while_

Under any other circumstance he would’ve likely run to his place. After all, nowhere else could he get the relief he so desperately craved. Out of all the men he’s slept with, Elias was the best he’s ever had, he knows how to work him to madness, like he’s been trained for it, could get his mind off of everything for an hour or two. Of course, the euphoria would crash down as soon as he would come and he remembered just how plainly disgusting this was but he couldn’t help it now, he was too far gone.

**To: Elias**

_Don’t feel like moving. You come over. My bf went out and he won’t be back til early morning_

Elias answers almost immediately.

**From: Elias**

_Too risky, sorry._

He sighs loudly, wiping the remnants of his tears with the back of his hands. He does the only thing that seems to make sense right now and goes online to buy a train ticket. He packs some of his clothes, reheats last night’s leftovers for dinner and goes to bed. Before sleeping, he pulls up Louis’ Instagram profile. Harry never uses the app, doesn’t even know what it’s good for, but what he does know is that Louis likes to share some parts of his life – the parts he wants people to see. There’s one picture of them together, somewhere in the last summer, and for some reason that’s the one post that got over five hundred likes. He opens his story, his finger tapping on the screen as he watches every part of his evening unfurling before him. He recognizes some of his friends; the last few clips are shot at some popular club Louis has dragged him into a few years back – Harry had hated it. Now, he and his friends are in the VIP section, dancing and drinking the night away. The last clip shows him and his friend Sean, mouthing along to the latest French rap hit. He thinks they look ridiculous, so he clicks his phone shut and throws the device across the mattress, tossing and turning until he falls asleep at around one.

He gets up quite early in the morning. Louis has come home in the meantime, but he’s still sound asleep next to him. So, without a noise, he gets dressed and ready, takes his suitcase and leaves for Bordeaux.

Anne was expecting him as soon as he showed up on their doorstep. He’d warned her he was coming with nothing more than a text message. He’s surprised she doesn’t smother him with questions immediately after opening the door. She just pulls him into a tight hug and he clings onto her like his life depends on it, nestling his chin against her shoulder as he’s hit with a familiar whiff of her perfume. It does wonders to calm him down. He feels like a kid again as he lets his eyes drift around his empty childhood house.

“I’ll put the kettle on, yeah?” He nods as they pull apart, and she places a single kiss on his forehead. “Come on in. Come with me.”

He leaves his suitcase by the door and follows her shyly into the kitchen. She fills the kettle with water and sets it to heat as he takes a seat at the table. The bread crumbs from that morning’s breakfast are still scattered around the wooden surface. Had he been at home he would’ve cleaned them. There’s a vase in the middle of the table, wilted flowers shedding their crumpled petals around. The kitchen is nice and toasty, and all he wants to do is fall asleep in his little room and never leave again.

As she waits for the water to boil, Anne leans against the counter and stares at him in silence, worried as only a mother could be. She’s done some work on herself and her behavior. She told Harry she had started to see a therapist about a year ago, and ever since, things had been much better between them. She’s stopped overtly prying into his life, only settling for creating a safe space for him to vent if he ever needed to. She’s worked hard to stop with all the misplaced judgment and backhanded comments about his life.

She keeps her questions to herself. Harry crosses his arms on the table, all thoughtful, his gaze lost in the void. After a while he speaks up, his voice oddly hoarse, “Is Robin here?”

“He’s at work, sweetheart. He’ll be back by 6. Want me to ring Gem?”

“Sure.”

So, she does. She tells her that Harry’s come home, nothing more, nothing less. Gemma doesn’t seem to ask any questions either, and tells her she’ll swing by later in the afternoon.

When the tea is ready, she brings him a cup at the table. He drinks quietly, one tiny sip at a time.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” she tries, softly.

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Have you had a row with Louis?”

“No,” he shakes his head, and he’s aware his answer might have seemed a bit too rushed to be truthful. “We haven’t fought.”

“He knows you’re here, then?”

“No, he doesn’t,” he admits, eyes downcast. And that’s all it takes for her to understand. “Please don’t call him. He’s probably still asleep anyway.”

“I won’t,” she assures him, taking one of his hands and giving it a little squeeze. “You want to tell me about it?”

“Sorry, but no,” he takes his hand back. “I think I might have a nap. Haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“Sure,” she nods, trying very hard to be understanding. “That’s okay. Let me get your room ready. The sheets need to be changed.”

“I can do it.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, baby. Go change your clothes, get comfortable, I’ll take care of it all.”

*

He wakes up entirely disoriented from his nap, sweaty and confused, around six in the afternoon. His bedroom is dark, but a stream of light seeps in from under the door. He hears muffled voices, and then a little pitter-patter dashing across the hallway, accompanied by a child’s voice.

He doesn’t budge until Gemma sneaks in, closing the door behind her, careful not to let too much light into the room. She comes and sit at the edge of his bed, stroking his back in a very maternal way; he figures that’s nothing to marvel about. She’s a mum, now.

“Hey,” she whispers. “You awake?”

“Mmm,” he mutters with his eyes closed.

“Thought you’d never wake up.”

“M’exhausted,” he rubs his eyes, pulling the covers over his chin.

“I know, but… Do you want to maybe go for a walk after dinner? We don’t need to go anywhere, really, we can just walk around the neighborhood. It’s nice outside. We could talk. How does that sound?”

He doesn’t feel like moving, is the thing. But the heavy feeling that’s pulling him down and making him sink deeper into the mattress with each passing hour is all too familiar, and he’d rather die than have to go through another episode and relive his awful, _awful_ teenage years. He lets out a heavy sigh as Gemma leans in, resting her weight against his back. It’s weirdly reassuring. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I’m hungry,” he says, hoping to divert her attention.

“Great, then. _Maman_ ’s made dinner. There’s salad, and quinoa, all this weird seed stuff you like. She’s made it all. Milo’s here too.”

Harry flips around so he’s lying on his back, a bright smile stretching his lips thin. Even his tired eyes are smiling. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s on fire today,” she smiles. “Driving me mad.”

“Right,” he stretches a bit. “Give me, like, fifteen minutes so I can get ready.”

“Good. See you in a bit.”

When Gemma exits the room, he grabs his phone, only to find absolutely zero texts. He turns it off and hops in the shower.

Milo knows very little about Harry. He knows that he’s his uncle, that he’s rather tall and that he usually only sees him on special occasions, but most of all, he knows that he loves playing with him and that unlike other adults, he’s excessively patient and never tells him to simmer down. So he often takes advantage of it. As soon as Harry steps into the living room, Milo runs to him and clings to his leg. With an amused grin, Harry crouches down to pick him up into his arms. He feels better almost instantly. Anne looks over tenderly at them while filling a plate. “Dinner’s ready, Harry, come on.”

Milo tries to regain his attention by placing his two little hands on either side of Harry’s face. “Did you bring me any toys?”

“Um…”

“Seriously,” Gemma says, indignantly. “You, sir, have more than enough toys at home.”

“That’s not true.”

“Leave him alone,” she presses, one hand on her hip. Harry can’t help but laugh – she reminds him of their mum when they were younger. “Get down, we’re going to eat.”

Harry puts the kid back down, ruffling his little blonde curls for good measure. They all sit around the table, and Milo stands on his tiptoes to assess the contents of the dinner table. He looks up at Anne. “ _Mamie_ , can I have another biscuit?”

“No, sweetie. We’re going to have a proper meal now, and if you finish your plate you can have a biscuit. Come and sit down, baby.”

He reluctantly complies and chooses to sit next to Harry. Robin joins them when he gets back from work a little later. He greets Harry warmly, not hiding his surprise at seeing him there. After all, he’d pretty much showed up unannounced.

“Louis’ not here with you?” Robin asks inquiringly, unfolding a napkin over his lap.

“Yeah, no. He’s busy with school and everything. I’m only here for a few days anyway.”

“A few days?” he repeats. “Well. _C’est toi qui vois_ ,” he concludes, grinding some pepper over his plate. “How is he? Everything good?”

“Mhm.” he replies dismissively.

“How’s work?”

“Great. Brilliant, really.”

Anne looks at him, lost in thought. She’s learned how to read him over time. But she’s also learned how to deal with him, and so she doesn’t want to make a scene at the dinner table. She eats quietly as they all chat away around the table.

After the meal, Harry helps with the dishes, then plays on the floor of the living room with Milo while waiting for Gemma to get ready. His parents join them a little later. They sit on the couch and Robin turns on the news, a glass of wine in his hand. It's one of the habits that Louis has also developed, and Harry realizes with horror that Louis and himself really are growing old.

“So how come you left Paris on a whim?” Anne asks carefully, drawing her legs up on the couch.

“Well,” Harry starts, sitting up straight. “I’m not sure, really. I mean, this was just on the spur of the moment. And I can afford to, so. Why not.”

“What about work?” she points out. He just shrugs, and she adds, “Are you having troubles at work? I know it’s a terribly unstable field to be working in, and…” she stops herself when Harry glares at her, as if to say, _you’re doing it again_.

“Everything’s fine at work. Besides we’re pretty much done for the season. I just really needed to come home for a while. Paris is exhausting.”

“Oh, I know that. But,” she and Robin look at each other, and she turns back to him. “The thing is, Harry, and hear me out,” she says, her tone guarded. “You left without any warning whatsoever. I mean, _something_ must’ve happened. You’ve never done that in four years, that’s what I’m worried about. You can talk to us. We’re here, we’ll listen to you, we’ll support you, no matter what it is. You know that. And it’ll stay between us.”

“Uncle Harry,” Milo calls out to him. “Look what my car can do when I pull it back… Look.”

“One second, sweetheart. _Maman_ ,” he says, decisively. “I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“That’s fine,” she concedes, though she so desperately wanted to press. “Fine. But if you need anything, let us know.”

“I will.”

Gemma steps into the living room shortly after, ready to go out. “All right, let’s go. Milo, I’m trusting you. You’d better behave and be good with _Mamie_ and _Papi_. If I come back home and they tell me you’ve thrown a fit, or you didn’t listen, or you’ve broken something…”

“I’m always good!” he protests without even looking up at her.

She scoffs with an amused smile “Of course you are. Now come and give me a kiss.”

*

It's already dark outside, and their little walk around the block is cut short when the rain broke out. They take shelter in the nearest café and take seats in the far back, waiting it out. Harry hasn’t exactly expected to cry, but as soon as Gemma asks him, all low and serious, ‘what’s going on?”, he breaks down. Quietly. He knows they’re in public and it’s already embarrassing enough as it is. They’re sitting face to face and Gemma looks at him in silence, her brows furrowed as he crosses his arms and lowers his head in shame.

“Is this about Louis?

With the back of his trembling hand, he wipes away the tears and nods. “He’s changed,” he says. “Everything’s changed. I don’t get it. We used to be so good together. We loved each other so much it was almost unbearable sometimes. Now it’s like everything has… died down, or something. He doesn’t give a shit about me. He’s like a total stranger. We haven’t had sex in so long, he doesn’t touch me anymore, he’s never here, and even when he is, it’s not much of a difference. Every day I try to show him I love him and he just doesn’t fucking care. And there’s this… thing he started to bring up. He’s like, yeah, I can tell you’re not happy, you’re always at home, you don’t have friends… all because I don’t go out and get wasted every night like he does. And the worst thing is that I’ve never complained about it, never even made him think that I was lonely or unhappy… In fact I loved my life with him. So I tell him he’s changed… and he gets angry. He tells me that’s how he is, and that if I have a problem with it I could basically go fuck myself.”

He marks a short pause and Gemma hands him a pack of tissues without saying anything. She watches with her hands crossed on her lap as he blows his nose.

“You know, the other day, you sent me this picture of Milo. And I showed him, ‘cause that’s what I always do, you know, we love him so much. And I didn’t even say anything. Just showed him the bloody picture. So he goes, uh, he’s cute and all, but I know what you’re trying to do. He told me he’s been thinking long and hard about it lately, and that he came to the conclusion that he didn’t want kids. Said he couldn’t see himself with a child, that he didn’t want to have to take care of someone the way he did when he was younger. That we didn’t need a child to be fulfilled, didn’t need to become parents to feel like men, whatever the fuck that means.”

“But that’s…”

“Listen,” he cuts her off. “I know that’s a valid position, right. But the thing is… just a few years ago, that was all we ever talked about. For bloody months, we were talking about having a kid, we’d come up with a list of names and we’d try to imagine what the room would look like… When Milo was born, he told me it’d be our turn someday. And he knew it would be complicated, he knew how fucking long the procedure was, he knew we’d struggle with paperwork and tests and everything, he knew how hard it is for same-sex couples to adopt, but he was determined and so was I. And to just wake up one morning and say these things to me, like it’s some silly little reflection…”

“What’d you do then?”

“I confronted him. It threw him off. And we fought like mad. That was the day we were supposed to go to Italy. We did go. But we didn’t talk for days… And since then, it’s been weird. He’s stopped telling me about his life. Did you know he was planning on opening his own firm after graduation? I had to find out through my ex-girlfriend, he never told me about it. I keep… I keep asking questions, I keep trying to be there for him but he’s become so bloody stubborn and he keeps everything to himself… Doesn’t even care what I do. And I try so hard and it’s just… exhausting.”

He takes a minute to regain his composure, and as his eyes fall shut, he realizes he’s just admitted out loud everything he’s been trying to contain for months. It was becoming all too real. Someone other than him knew about it. Gemma gives him some time in case he might want to continue, but he doesn’t. He wipes his tears once again.

“I feel like you’ve spent your whole life idealizing him, you know,” she says. “Not that I’m blaming you or anything. I understand, and that’s totally normal, I mean, you’re… madly in love, aren’t you?”

Harry just nods.

“Listen. I don’t know him that well. I mean, not as well as you do, I suppose. But we’ve had a few talks, me and him. I think there might be some underlying reason for all this. Remember when he came with us to Saint-Malo?”

“Yes.”

“One night, it was just the two of us. You must’ve been out with Maman that day, I’m not sure. But we were alone. And we talked. I think he might’ve been drunk because he couldn’t stop talking. He was telling me all about himself, his family, his mum and everything, and… Harry, look. I think he’s just very scared. He knows he’s getting old. He knows that very soon he won’t be able to have as much fun. To me it sounded like he was afraid of… confining himself to an ordinary life. He told me he felt as though his own life had slipped through his fingers, ‘cause he practically spent his entire time taking care of other people. Especially when his mum died. That… that makes you grow up. Real quick. And that’s what I mean when I say he feels like he’s missed out on something. So, the life he’s leading now, with you… it’s nice and all… but it scares him. You keep bringing up… long-term commitment, and kids and whatnot, but… he’s not… He might not be ready.”

“He never tells me these things, how am I meant to figure it out all by myself? I mean, fuck, he’s twenty-six years old. We’re not kids anymore. He can’t just act like one and push me away.”

“It’s not that simple, Harry. Look at it this way. You’re both at different stages in your lives. You don’t need the same things. To me it just seems like you’re not on the same page anymore, you know what I mean? Having said that, it’s not too late to fix things. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, just… just that it can be solved. You two need to communicate.”

“I would if he would bloody listen to me. He never wants to just… sit down and talk. If I tell him things have changed between us, he shuts me up, denies it, he simply _doesn’t want_ to talk. I’m willing to make an effort. It’s all I’ve been doing lately. But if he keeps on pushing me away, what am I meant to do?”

“Well, first of all, don’t make it sound like you’re attacking him, maybe. You blame him and you tell him he’s the only one who’s changed…Reckon anyone would take offense.”

“Whatever,” he pushes his empty cup of coffee away as his fingers start mindlessly toying with a paper napkin. “Just don’t know what to do anymore. It’s exhausting.”

“Look,” she says softly, her eyes cast down. “If you feel like it’s hopeless, if you’re genuinely unhappy, and if he’s unhappy too… Just know, it’s not your fault. And it’s not his either. It’s okay. That’s life. I know it’s not exactly what you wanted but… stuff like that happens all the time.” A new wave of tears starts prickling his eyes as Gemma very sensibly insinuates that perhaps they should put an end to it, seeing as it was impossible to rekindle a flame on his own. “It’s nobody’s fault,” she repeats. “These things happen. And again, I’m not telling you that you’ve got to break up with him right away. I know it won’t be easy.”

“I love him, Gem,” he says, and when the words come out it’s almost like he’s begging her to see _his_ truth, like maybe he’s trying to prove her wrong. “I can’t live without him. I don’t _want_ to. I can’t see a future without him in it. He’s … just, he’s _it_ for me. He’s always been it.”

“I know. But you’re not happy,” she simply states, matter-of-factly. “Holding on like you do… It won’t end well. You’ll just get hurt in the long term.”

*

When midnight comes around, after Gemma and Milo have left and after his parents have gone to bed and he’s locked himself up in his teenage room, Louis finally sends him a single message. When his phone screen lights up, he feels alive again.

**From: Lou**

_where are u ?_

That was all. It’s taken him more than a day to notice he wasn’t around. Harry makes a point of letting go of his growing grudge. He buries himself underneath the blanket and types his answer.

**To: Lou**

_At my parents' house._

**From: Lou**

_???_

**From: Lou**

_Bordeaux?? What r u doing there . Did somhing happen? Is. E veryone ok??_

He lets out a long, disheartened sigh and turns on his back, holding his phone right above his face.

**To: Lou**

_Everyone’s okay._

**From: Lou**

_whe n are you comhin back?_

**To: Lou**

_I don't know._

He can see him typing a response. It takes ages – sometimes he stops for a while, and then picks right back up.

**From: Lou**

_can I calll..., p_

**To: Lou**

_I don't know if that's a good idea._

**_From: Lou_ **

_please ?_

He caves in after a few miserable seconds. He calls him himself, plugging his earphones in and holding the phone against his chest, eyes staring at the white ceiling. It rings twice, and while he does, he considers hanging up and turning the whole thing off.

Then he hears his voice and his throat tightens. It’s soft, and a little raspy, too.

“Heeyyy.”

“Hey,” says Harry.

“Hi, baby, hi… how you doing…What are you doing in Bordeaux?”

“’M fine,” he whispers, curling into a ball under the covers. “Missed my mum and sister, so I went home.”

“Was that planned?”

“No. I left this morning.”

“Well yeah, I saw that… Listen. Can you please come home? Hate it when it’s empty. Hate being alone here. Come back. Please.”

“I think I need some time, Louis.”

And then there’s silence. So heavy it could’ve pierced right through his eardrums. For a moment he thinks he might’ve hung up. But then Louis replies, “Time.”

“Yes.”

“What do you need time for?”

“To think.”

“About what?”

“About us.”

“Well damn. Come home and we can think together, we’ll get straight to the point!” he says with a giggle in his voice. “I’m all alone in bed, bet you are too, you can’t do the thinking for the both of us now can you.”

“Lou… Have you been drinking?”

“No… Well maybe I’ve had a sip. Or two. Why does it matter?”

“I’m serious. Why are you drunk on a Monday night?”

He listens as Louis lets out a long, shaky sigh. “Can you come home, please?” he repeats. “You’ve seen your mum, haven’t you? You can come back now… When do I ever get to see _my_ mum? How’s that fair?”

“I'm going to bed, you’re drunk. I'll give you a call tomorrow, if you want. “

“Don’t bother. Said you needed your time, that’s fine. You don’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave you alone.”

“Louis…”

“G’night.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

*

Harry spends three days at home. He rarely ever leaves the house. The few times he does is to run some errands for his mum. He spends most of his time sleeping and tries to stay away from his phone.

He pops by Gemma and her fiancé’s place before leaving. He puts on this happy façade, tries to convince her they’ve made up so she’ll stop pestering him with what is – essentially – the truth. He takes his nephew out to the shops and buys him new toys – it makes both of their days. The next morning he hops on the first train to Paris. Before he knows it, he’s standing in front of their door, his suitcase at his feet. It’s noon on a Thursday – he doubts he’ll find him there but he can’t help feeling antsy. He inserts the key into the lock and opens the door. He’s barely toed his shoes off when Louis pops around the corner, still dressed in his pajamas, his hair all messy, dark circles under his eyes. He goes straight into his arms, hugging Harry so impossibly tight he can hardly breathe. Harry hugs him right back as a wave of relief washes over him. They pull apart after a while and Louis gently holds his face between his hands, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs. Harry delves into his eyes – they’re a lighter blue than usual, and what he sees in them isn’t even close to anything he’d expected. He just looks tired.

“Don’t you have class?” Harry whispers, both hands holding his waist as he pulls him closer.

He gently shakes his head, “Haven’t gone out since you’ve left.”

It’s becoming impossibly hard to find the right words to say. _Sorry_ , maybe, would’ve been a good start. But neither one of them can bring themselves to do it. Instead, their lips find their way back to each other in a long, greedy kiss. For the first time in weeks, they make love. It isn’t sweet. It isn’t sweet at all, it’s rough and messy and it’s almost like Louis’ trying to take his resentment out on him. But Harry won’t complain – not only does he love it when it gets rough, but it’s also better than nothing. And he’s had his fair share of _nothing_ for the past few weeks. He thinks perhaps this is the beginning of something new and hopefully better. Except when they’ve both come down their highs, they still don’t have a clue what to say to each other. They’re out of breath and out of words, so they kiss and touch and caress and grab and scratch each other, and they pick right back up. They spend the entire day in bed, alternating between bouts of sleeping and fucking. It reminds them of that sweet, distant period of their lives where they’d reunited that one summer, a few years earlier.

That day, they try new things, too. Stuff that hasn’t ever crossed their minds before. It’s noisy and chaotic and drives them both to madness – in a good way. Harry’s skin is tinted pink and littered in tiny bruises, handprints, and light scratches. His lips are red and swollen from how much he’s bitten them, and a few strands of hair are sticking to his face.

Louis comes down his throat right when he’s about to drop with exhaustion. He still makes a show of swallowing everything and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he climbs to snuggle up in Louis’ arms. And the aftercare’s just muscle memory – their naked bodies intertwined as Louis soothes him down, whispering into his ear and telling him just how good he had been for him. The air is hot and dense and everything around them smells like sex – Harry’s head is still spinning as he feels Louis’ hand stroking his back before finding its way down to his arse. He grabs one of his cheeks, squeezing and massaging it, digging his fingers in the flesh like he’s claiming it.

Harry rests his weary head against Louis’ shoulder and catches his breath. He couldn’t care less if they’re both sweating and in dire need of a shower. He could fall asleep right there, still in that dreamlike state. He feels so incredibly light, like he could just float away.

“I hate it when we’re apart,” Louis whispers.

Harry places a single kiss upon his damp skin. “I hate it too.”

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much and I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry you’re sad because of me.”

“’M not sad,” he objects weakly.

“You are, though. It’s my fault. I’m a bit of a prick aren’t I…”

“A bit,” he mumbles. “Yeah. Maybe just a bit.” When Louis laughs, he can feel the vibrations right against his ear. Harry brings his hand to Louis’ chest and his fingers start drawing abstract shapes on his skin. “Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“That you love me.”

“I love you.”

“How much do you love me?”

“ _Je t’aime… comme… comme un fou_.”

“Mmm…”

“ _Comme un soldat_ ,” he continues, breaking into this annoyingly famous French classic song. “ _Comme une star de cinema_ …”

“Shut up,” he giggles against his skin.

“ _Je t’aiiime_ … Go on then, sing along.”

“No.”

“ _Comme un loup_ …”

“ _Comme un roi,_ ” Harry completes, and they end up singing together. “ _Comme un homme, que je ne suis pas… tu vois, je t’aime comme ça…”_

It feels like they’ve started a new, fresh chapter in their lives. The following days aren’t so different. It’s light and sweet, and it reminds them of how they were in the very beginning. They stop bickering and fighting over trivial things. It's obvious that Louis' making an effort, and Harry is infinitely grateful for it. They have fun, and it seems like a given but it’s not, lately, that they enjoy being around each other, and now they do. They have sex every night, except on Saturday, when Louis is too busy with school work and Harry knows better than to bother him.

Although, whenever Harry comes home late, Louis’ always plagued with thoughts of the Artist. He won’t bring him up as he has nothing legitimate to blame him for, and he’s definitely not trying to stir any trouble now that they’ve made up, but he can’t help it. Whenever Harry smiles at his phone, or when he seems to hide his screen from him and glosses over what he’s done after work – Louis thinks of this man.

It lasts about a week. That short, short period of time has been nothing but bliss on either side. It was beautiful, and they definitely needed it.

One morning at breakfast, they’re sitting face to face at the table, in their little kitchen. The sun is pouring in from the window, right in their faces, nearly blinding them. Louis watches him quietly, half of his own food left untouched. Harry bites into an avocado toast with one hand, and with the other he types a message on his phone. After a moment, he looks up and meets Louis’ tired eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He asks, one side of his lips curling into a grin.

Louis just shrugs. “I’m just looking at you.”

“Not hungry anymore?”

He pushes his plate away. “M’ full, actually. Who are you talking to so early in the morning?”

Harry focuses on his phone again, shoots a quick reply at whoever he was texting. “It’s uh… Gem.”

“Yeah? What’s she saying then?”

“She’s saying… Milo’s lost a tooth.”

“He’s three years old,” Louis notes. “That can’t be good…”

“Mh?” He looks up at him. “Yeah. Well, I’m heading out. Don’t want to be late.”

“It’s early.”

“I’ve got to stop by the bank,” he explains as he stands up. “I’ll see you tonight.”

He leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek that Louis doesn’t even seem to acknowledge. He watches him leave and head for the door, slipping his coat on, plugging his earphones and grabbing his keys. As soon as he walks out the door, he starts talking to someone on the phone.

When he’s left alone, Louis gets up. He clears the breakfast table, throws the breadcrumbs away and cleans the surface of the wood. He does the dishes, tidies up the place – anything to take his mind off of what’s troubling him.

*

That same night, around eight, Elias drives Harry back to his apartment building. He miraculously finds a place to park his car and turns off the engine. Harry’s sitting on the passenger seat, his hands folded over his lap, avoiding his eyes.

“Well… That was fun,” Elias says, his hands still on either side of the wheel, searching for Harry’s eyes.

“Yeah. I had a great time, really.”

“But… you’ve been distant lately. Like… Your mind’s somewhere else. You want to tell me what’s wrong? Is it something I’ve done?”

Harry lets out a weak sigh, and then he gathers the strength to look him in the eye. Elias must’ve misinterpreted his look. When he puts his hand on his thigh, Harry gently pushes it back “Elias,” he starts, his voice a little shaky, shifting on his seat. “I think we should stop this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I love my boyfriend. And… Well, we’ve made up. And we’re doing much better now. I love him. I feel awful.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “’Cause everyone knows it’s all right to mess around with other people when you’re in rough patch, but suddenly it’s _wrong_ and _awful_ when you’re doing better. Am I understanding correctly? How righteous of you.”

“Hey,” he tries to reason him, but his voice comes out as so weak and frail it’s ridiculous. “You’re doing the exact same thing with Mia. Don’t tell me you don’t feel-”

“Do me a favor and keep her name out of your mouth, yeah?”

Harry freezes. The words are stuck in his throat, and he wishes he could just open the door and leave, but it’s as though he’s paralyzed. “Look. I’m sorry, Elias. I made a mistake. We both did… But… We could still be friends. I like you a lot… I really did have fun today.”

“Why do you keep lying to yourself?” he asks, just a bit softer this time. “We fucked up… Both of us. You know very well we can’t just be friends.”

“Right. You’re right…. You know what, good luck with the show. I’ve got to go home. Thank you for today.”

Without waiting for his answer, he steps out of the car and towards the entrance of his building, shivering in the dry, biting cold. A car door closes behind him; Elias gets out in turn, skirts the vehicle and catches up with him fairly quickly. “So you’re just leaving then?”

Harry halts when Elias blocks his way. “What do you want?”

“A proper goodbye. That’s what I want.”

He takes a few steps towards him, Harry stays still. He knows exactly what he meant. And so, when Elias kisses him, he doesn’t back away. He closes his eyes, expecting something quite harsh, but it’s rather sweet actually. They kiss on the narrow sidewalk, their cheeks bitten by the cold, their hands hesitant and their hearts pounding.

The little street is deafeningly quiet.

Meanwhile, on the fourth floor, from the window, Louis looks at them, his face pale and his breath caught in his throat. He’d been leaning against the edge for a while – couldn’t be arsed to get out for a smoke. And now his cigarette is nudged in between his shaky fingers. He pulls on it one last time, throws the rest out and slams the window shut.

He paces around the flat, waiting for Harry to come home. His mind has never been so empty yet so loud at the same time. He wants to cry and shout and break everything he can lay his hands on but he doesn’t. He contains himself, breathes in and out, feverish and restless. He knows if he isn’t careful, he could blow up, quite literally. His anger is white-hot and simmering right from his legs to his head.

He hears the key in the lock and stops dead in the middle of the living room. Harry walks in, locking up behind him.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” he says, toeing off his shoes. He walks up to him and presses a light kiss on his cheek. Louis’ stunned, unable to form the slightest coherent thought. “How was your day?” Harry asks him, innocently. Soon enough though, he notices something’s off. “What’s wrong?”

“What were you doing with that man?” Louis shoots at him, going straight to the point. His voice is calm, but firm.

Harry takes his time to unbutton his coat and lays it out on a chair. “What are you talki-”

“Cut the shit,” he interrupts him abruptly. “I saw you and that bloke from the gallery down there. He drove you back in his car. What were you doing with him, where did you go, and what did you do?”

“Well… He’s my friend. We went to see a play, and then we went shopping and-”

“Why did he kiss you then?”

And Harry falls silent. He’s been caught, and there's no going back now. He knows he screwed up, he knows there’s no way out of this. He looks around as if he were searching for a way to escape. But then Louis raises his voice at him. “I’m talking to you, Harry! Why did he kiss you?”

“He… He didn’t _kiss_ me, we were just…”

“You think I’m an idiot?” he threatens, slowly walking up to him. “Do you think I’m an idiot? You wanna lie to me? Wanna lie like I didn’t just witness the whole fucking thing?”

“No,” he mumbles, tears pooling in his eyes. “No, Louis, I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

“Then why did he kiss you?”

“He’s just a friend, I promise. If he kissed me, it was… it was, it was a misunderstanding. He probably thought I-”

“Don’t lie to me!” he yells out suddenly, scolding him with his finger as if he were reprimanding a child. “Don’t you lie to me, Harry.”

Guilty as charged, and deeply aware that he’s already lost, the tears flow freely down his cheeks. Now they’re both witnessing the unraveling of the past few months. Harry’s heart is caught somewhere between beats, and he thinks this might be what it’s like to drown. His lips are quivering, and he stifles his upcoming sobs, doesn’t let any of them out, each one making his chest convulse. Louis lowers his finger, exhaling deeply.

“How many times have you slept together?”

First, there’s silence. Harry’s crying properly now, silent but constant. Then he begs him weakly, “Don’t…”

“How many times,” he repeats, insisting on each word, “have you slept together. Tell the truth, Harry.”

“F… Four times,” he confesses, his voice strangled. “But it was nothing, I swear, it didn’t mean anything.”

Louis clenches his jaw, so harshly his teeth start to actually hurt. _Four times_. His stomach lurches. _Four times_. He runs his fingers through his hair, nervously, pulling on it until he’s just short of tearing it off. _Four times._ He starts pacing again, holding back tears as best he can.

Harry takes one hesitant step towards him, and then stops, because he understands. Louis thinks he’ll kill him if he moves, if he comes any closer.

“I swear, it was... it was just… we weren’t. I don’t know why I…”

“Are you in love with him?” Louis asks suddenly as he stops pacing. "Cause this is... This... is like, a regular thing you do, now. Are you in love with him then?"

“No!” he cries out. “No, I’m not in love with him. Louis, please… Please believe me, it didn’t mean anything… I was lonely, I was sad and you… you didn’t want to touch me anymore you didn’t want to make love to me and I-”

“So you thought you’d go and get your back blown out somewhere else?” he blurts out, outraged, as a tear rolls down his cheek. “For fuck’s sake…” He hides his face in his hands, trying so hard to contain himself. But then Harry approaches him and tries to wrap his arms around him, and Louis might actually obliterate him if he gets any closer, he won’t have it. He shoves him back so brutally Harry has to hold onto the wall to keep from falling over. “Don’t touch me,” he spits. “Don’t you fucking touch me. You _disgusting_ little liar. You lied to me this whole time. I can’t believe I was feeling bad for having doubts. You fucking slag. You disgusting whore.”

Harry shakes his head, as if he’s trying to shake the words out of his ears, like he can’t believe they’ve just rolled off his tongue that easily.

“You’re a fucking whore, is what you are. I don’t want some little slag in my house. Or in my life.”

“Stop it.”

“You’re getting fucked, aren’t you? You like that, huh? Having random men fucking you? You _love_ that, don’t you?”

“Don’t talk to me like that… I told you it didn’t-”

“I’ll talk however the fuck I want. You don’t _get_ to tell me what to do right now…” he pauses to take a short breath, and then just spews it out like it’s venom, “I don’t want to be with you anymore. Get out of here.”

“No.”

Louis ignores him, and goes straight to their room. When it starts to sound like he’s turning the place upside down, Harry follows him, mildly panicked. His suitcase is wide open on their bed, and Louis’ just taking big piles of Harry’s clothes from the closet and the drawers and stuffing them messily in the luggage.

“What are you doing?” he asks, shakily.

“Packing your shit. You’re leaving.”

“No, please don’t,” he begs and clings onto his arm to stop him from shoving any more of his belongings in the suitcase. “Please, I love you, I’m sorry, you can’t do this...”

“Let go of me… Let go of my arm, Harry, let go of me,” he snaps, bracing himself for the next hot-faced apology trailing miserably from his lips.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he bursts into tears, borderline hysterical. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m sorry, damn it, look at me,” he begs, his voice caught in his throat and his breath so shaky he can barely articulate. “Please look at me, I’m so sorry, I don’t…” he trails off, his voice hoarse and broken.

“It’s too late,” Louis says, dryly, wiping his own tears with the back of his sleeve. “You hurt me, Harry. You really hurt me, it’s too late. It’s over.”

“You can’t fucking do that!” he shouts, and it’s like a dam’s just broken and he gets to finally throw up everything that’s been eating at him from the inside all this time. “Look. Until now, you didn’t give a shit about me. You’ve practically been living on your own! Do you know how many times I let your shit slide just because I love you and can’t live without you? And now you want to kick me out like _you_ never did anything wrong?”

“If you weren’t fucking happy, then why didn’t you break up with me?” he shouts back, even louder. “You had _thousands_ of opportunities to tell me you were unhappy, why couldn’t you just fucking man up and break up with me instead of fucking someone else behind my back? How does that make sense?!”

“You weren’t happy either,” he whispers in between sobs.

“But I never cheated on you!” he retorts, pointing an accusatory finger at him. When he picks up, his voice cracks a little. “I never did, I would _never_ do that to you. You disgust me,” he spits. “You. Everything about you is disgusting. You’re the worst kind of person. You act so innocent, you act like you’re some bloody saint who never does anything wrong and then you turn around and do shit like this.”

Harry stays quiet.

“And for what? For what I did to you, whatever that was, I deserved this as payback?”

“No,” he mutters, shakily. “I’m sorry. Please… Please just hear me out, _mon amour,_ I love you. I’ll do anything-”

“Stop talking to me like that. Don’t call me _mon amour_. Get your shit, and get out of here.”

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry,” he says, and repeats it over and over like a broken record, he thinks maybe if he says it enough times something might just click in Louis’ mind. “Please… It’s not fair.”

“Fair? You wanna talk about fair? Fuck you, Harry. Fuck you for doing this. It’s not fucking fair to me, you don’t get to say sorry and have it all better. You’re not going to _apologize_ your way out of this.”

“Please…” He begs weakly, and by now he’s pretty much out of it, just saying nonsense and clinging onto Louis’ arm, hoping this time he won’t push him back but he does. He does, every single time. He shoves him away brutally, and Harry comes back, and they do it all over again. “Don’t do this to me. I have nowhere to go, this is my home.”

“You don’t get to call this home anymore. Get out! I want you out of here! Get out of my _life_. I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want _you_ anymore.”

“Yes you do,” he cries softly. “You do want me.”

“D’you know how pathetic you sound right now?”

He slams the lid of the suitcase, zips it shut and drags it to the front door while Harry desperately tries to pull it back. Louis opens the door and throws everything onto the landing. Three of their neighbors have opened their own doors, their heads peeking out to try and see what the commotion is all about.

“Out,” Louis says, pointedly. “Get out. _Now_. I don’t care where you go, just get out.”

“I don’t want to.”

And then it gets physical. Harry holds onto him, Louis shoves him away, and then it gets violent, they get hurt and Harry cries and Louis wants to cry too but he doesn’t because right now he’s the one who’s got to be strong. The little sharp scratches Harry’s nails leave on Louis’ arm don’t hurt as much as having to push him away.

“Please, please… Please, where am I meant to go? I can’t _live_ without you. I don’t know where to go, I don’t know what to do… Lou, please, I’ll-”

“Why don’t you go to that man’s house? He fucked you four times, the least he can do is let you stay the night. We’re through, Harry. Hope he was fucking worth it.”

At long last, and with a fair bit of roughing up, Louis manages to push him hard into the landing, hard enough to have enough time to close the door and lock it.

*

It’s the vernissage, about a week later. The gallery is bustling with people, amongst them some of the most renowned art collectors and connoisseurs of the region. A wealthy, cultured audience with astonishingly high expectations. The works on display all bear an invisible price tag; the transactions are settled through long conversations, handshakes, card exchanges, drink toasts, introductions, smiles, laughter and compliments. Harry saunters around the various rooms, shakes countless hands, chats with the customers he recognizes, participates in the critics, gets in touch with all of the artists and in between interactions, drinks more champagne than he usually allows himself in a setting like this. A concerned colleague of his intercepts him along a corridor.

“Everything alright?” he asks, noting the dark circles weighing under his eyes. “Rough night?”

“ _Pardon?_ ”

“Is… Everything okay?”

No one knows. Harry refuses to bring it up with anybody – if he did then it would become real. He fakes a smile and downs the last of his drink, “Oh yeah. Yeah. I’m a bit tired, but I’ll be fine.”

A waiter passes by with a tray of sparkling champagne flutes.

“I’ll have some more of that,” Harry says, picking one up from the tray, before flashing another weak smile at his colleague.

“Well anyway. You’ve done an impressive job, just thought you should know. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

After a moment, and inevitably it seems, he finds himself at the back of the room where L’Innocence Nue is exposed. The walls are painted black, dim lighting accentuating the tone of the painting. There are quite a few people gathered in front of the canvas, whispering among themselves.

It’s unsettling. For weeks, he’s had the firm conviction that L’Innocence Nue was the most splendid and thought-provoking piece of work he’s laid eyes on, in his time at the gallery. Elias must have spent hours laying it on thick for him, and Harry drank his words with no filter whatsoever. Harry loved the painting more than he cared to admit. He’s even given it its own room. But today, as he pores over the canvas, he’s starting to notice all its little flaws and imperfections, in a way that strangely reminds him of Dorian Gray, whose sins were recorded on canvas, and whose painting bore the ill effects of his behavior by the day.

Among the visitors, he spots Elias, who’s currently having a very animated conversation with the guests, oddly at ease, charming as usual. Harry stares from afar, deep in thought, holding his glass to his lips. In a brief moment of distraction, Elias stares back, and then smiles at him. He excuses himself and walks up to him.

“Bonsoir, Harry.”

“Bonsoir.”

“You should be proud of yourself. Really. It’s brilliant. This night, I mean. Earlier, a man came up to me. Some big name from Italy. One of the most famous curators in Rome. He said he was interested in buying L’Innocence Nue and that he’d like to hang it up in the villa of the Pinciana Gallery… The kind of place you’re not allowed into without a reservation, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m happy for you. You deserve it.”

Harry’s slightly taken aback when Elias puts his hand on his arm, but he doesn’t even flinch. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“… You sure?”

“I had a rough night, nothing to worry about. Think I might call it a night actually. I mean… This is supposed to last well after midnight but…” he pauses to smirk. “I’ll be knackered by then.”

“Right,” he nods. “Well… If this is goodbye, then, I’d just like to say thanks. For everything you’ve done for me. Would you like to keep in touch?”

“I uh… Yeah. Sure,” he mutters, bringing his glass up to his lips. “We can keep in touch.”

And that’s all the time Harry has for him. He excuses himself and exits the room. On his way to his office, he gets interrupted twice. He stops, engages with whoever’s seeking his advice or opinion on one of the pieces, plays the game for a couple more minutes, emotionless and professional up until the very end.

And then, when he’s finally released, he takes refuge into his office. He locks himself in, doesn’t even bother to turn the lights on. He breaks into tears almost instantly, choking on his sobs, and his chest actually, physically hurts so much he can hardly breathe. He covers his mouth with his hand just in case someone hears him on the other side of the door.

There are times he doubts the wound will ever entirely mend. The thing is it hurts so much, it stings and it burns like someone’s just pressed red-hot metal right in the middle of his chest. The pain is so sharp his mind can’t even form a single thought.

*

He’s had two hours of sleep, tops. At 10 am, he’s sitting in the middle of his messy hotel bed, in his underwear, eyes and face puffy from the tears and the lack of sleep, and his hair’s a complete mess. He's got his knees up against his chest and he’s looking out the window. It’s a beautiful, sunny day and yet he’d rather die than set foot outside. His eyes are red-rimmed, eyelashes still sticky and wet, and his last real meal dates back to two days ago. His suitcase is somewhere on the ground, filled with discarded clothes he doesn’t even bother to fold properly. Most of them are strewn about the floor anyway.

His phone buzzes once, startling him out of his thoughts. He unplugs it and grabs it quickly.

**From: Lou**

_Come get the rest of your stuff._

He stares at the words on the screen, blankly, like his heart hasn’t just been crushed all over again.

**To: Lou**

_I don’t want to_

**From: Lou**

_Look. If you don’t pick them up by 5, I’m throwing everything out._

*

He stops in front of the door, at the entrance of their building. The little “Styles-Tomlinson” label by the 48th taunts him. He rings once, Louis picks up but decides not to pipe up on the intercom. He just buzzes him in.

When he reaches their floor, he sees that their door is already halfway open. It’s the first time he’s set foot into their flat in more than a week. And he really wishes it wasn’t as daunting as he made it out to be. It’s frighteningly silent as he steps inside their place. It’s exactly as he has left it. Louis is nowhere to be seen, so naturally he goes looking for him and finds him in their bedroom, standing by the bed, fully dressed, with his head bowed and his arms crossed over his chest.

“Take what’s yours.”

When Harry doesn’t seem to want to comply, Louis finally deigns to look up at him.

During their years together, Harry’s grown used to comparing him to the paintings he’s always felt indescribably drawn to. And he always told him that. It was their thing for a while.

He would say to him,

_You remind me of,_

_Friedrich’s Wanderer above the Sea of Fog;_

_Fragonard’s The Bolt;_

_Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night;_

 _Why?_ He’d ask.

_Because you are sublime: I admire you because I don’t understand you;_

_Erotic and obscene,_

_You remind me of,_

_The hottest night of all Summers._

But today, devastatingly so, the only painting that comes to mind when he sees him is Fallen Angel, Alexander Cabanel’s masterpiece. The harshness and the look of vengeance and anger in his red-rimmed eyes. What strikes him – and kills him the most – is that there’s nothing left of the tenderness he’d become accustomed to. They were strangers.

“Why did you come empty-handed… You do know you’re here to pack your stuff…”

Harry remains silent. There are a few scratches and bruises speckled across Louis’ arms; most of which are already fading away. Harry knows it’s his fault. He’d held on so tight that night, he’d dug his fingers into his flesh and gripped his arms for dear life when Louis kept on shoving him away.

“Take my suitcase. It’s under the bed.”

“Louis…”

“Don’t,” he threatens.

“You need to water the plant,” he whispers, his voice strangled.

“…What?” he frowns.

“The little potted plant, by the window,” he says. “You’ve got to water it every morning… There’s… A dried-up leaf… It’ll die if you don’t…” He trails off when Louis’ eyes well up with tears.

“Take my suitcase,” he repeats. “Fill it up, and then leave.”

And with that, he exits the room and leaves him alone. Harry knows it’s best not to insist, he couldn’t bear having him lash out on him once again. It’s torn him to shreds the last time he did. He rummages through their bedroom, searching for the rest of his belongings in the drawers and the closets, and from the corner of his eye he clocks this black jumper that he loved seeing him wear; he always thought Louis looked nothing short of ravishing in black. It also happened to be one of Louis’ favorite pieces of clothing. So he pulls it off the hanger and hides it in between his own clothes, intent on having a part of him in his keeping. Besides, if he ever wanted it back, he would have to talk to him.

When he’s sure he’s packed his entire life into that suitcase, he stills in the middle of the bedroom. It hits him just then, how terrifying and bitterly final it is, how this is basically it; he would walk out that door with his stuff and it would all be over for good. It’s years’ worth of relationship they’re throwing away, he can’t seem to wrap his head around it. And he doesn’t want to. So he leaves the suitcase on the bed and pads quietly over to the living room where he finds him. Their eyes lock immediately. As soon as he enters, Louis gets up from the couch. For some reason he couldn’t bear to be sitting down in his presence. It seems like the mere fact that he’s on his feet makes him feel stronger, perhaps more imposing than he really is. He doesn’t break their eye contact, and remains completely still as Harry approaches him cautiously. As it happens, this isn’t the first time they find themselves in that position. Like a bittersweet déjà-vu, a distant reminder to that first summer in Maravilla, on their very last day in a tiny, cramped room in Louis’ holiday home. It’s not so different now. Louis; stock-still, lost in his own mind, and Harry just inching closer, filled with courage that did not belong to him.

Except today Harry doesn’t go for a kiss. He simply pulls him into a tight hug, fighting against tears as he feels a wave of relief washing over him. After more than a week of what he’s deemed pure torture, he can finally touch him and hold him in his arms again. He buries his nose in his hair, his vision completely blurred with the tears welling up in his eyes.

Louis indulges him for a few blissful seconds, and then pushes him away. “Harry,” he protests, low and raspy. “Let go of me.”

He doesn’t. He clings to him, begging for something he can’t even articulate. He knows he’ll be alright if Louis just lets him hold him just a little longer. But Louis steps back and grabs both of his forearms, firmly. They can hardly see each other through their blurry vision. “Enough. It’s over.”

“No, it’s not,” he whimpers pathetically. “It’s not. You still want me. You still love me… Right? Hey… Look. It’s not… It’s not complicated,” he insists, his voice breaking. “Look, look at me… Look at me, yeah? We can just forget this whole thing. I love you. And you love me. It’s that simple.”

“It’s _not_ simple,” he whispers. “You fucked up. Now live with it.”

“I don’t want to be alone.” And when he says that, it comes out as so disgustingly desperate, his last resort to appeal to whatever’s left of Louis’ compassion.

“You’ll learn,” he simply says, and even though Harry shakes his head in denial, he goes on. “Yes you will. You will learn. But I can’t help you anymore so… Please. Just please, get out.”

“You don’t want me to leave. I know you don’t want me to.”

Harry steps closer and kisses him on the cheek. Louis doesn’t even blink, doesn’t flinch at all, and most of all doesn’t push him away, so he keeps going. He dares to press his lips against his in a short, chaste kiss. Again, not only does Louis indulge him, but he even allows himself to close his eyes for a while as Harry’s mouth moves along his jaw, dusting little kisses down to his neck. But when he touches him, running his hands along either side of his body, it’s like Louis’ just woken up all of a sudden. Against his own will, he slips away. “Enough,” he croaks, and then practically storms into the bedroom to retrieve the suitcase Harry’s almost forgotten. He pulls it along, dropping it outside, right on the landing. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Do yourself a favor. Leave.”

To his own surprise, Harry doesn’t put up a fight. He holds his gaze, taking him in like he wants to print his image in his memory, forever wishing things were different, and then leaves quietly. Louis shuts the door behind him – what Harry doesn’t know is just how much strength it’s taken him to accomplish the mere gesture. The sound echoes around in the landing.

They don’t see each other again.

He goes home for Christmas, and takes on the tedious, heart-wrenching task of having to tell everyone that he and Louis were broken up. He doesn’t say why, and thankfully no one insists. The disappointed looks he gets are harrowing enough. Much to his surprise, he finds out Louis’ not been able to open up either, because on Christmas Eve he gets a concerned text from Charlotte, asking him what’s happened. Harry ignores it.

That Christmas, it snows for the first time in five years.

*

Summer 2030 is the hottest summer on record. The news is depressing enough without mentioning the deadly heatwaves in some parts of the world. Every year the air becomes just a little heavier, a little more unbreathable. People come to fear the summer.

Harry’s twenty-six. And if he can’t seem to find satisfaction in his love life, he manages to find it elsewhere. He finds it in his gorgeous apartment in the 7th district, with a breathtaking view of the city. He finds it in his ever-growing art collection, the paintings lining his walls, the books filling his shelves, and in the great parties he’s sometimes invited to, where all the lovers of art gather, the great critics of Paris, an intellectual circle he really feels like he belongs to, because they _listen_ when he speaks, they value his many opinions and seek his outlook – and they’ve always got that little spark in their eyes whenever he takes the stage. He also finds it in his many, many one-night stands. He loses himself in the arms of faceless men and women, hoping to find a little part of him in one of them, if only his eyes, his voice or the way he laughs. But so far, no one ever compared. And sometimes, when he finds himself dwelling upon it, alone in the middle of the day or in bed, he wonders if he’ll ever be truly happy. He knows something’s missing, and what’s worse, he’s convinced it had actually been a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and that he’d truly gone and ruined it.

Sometimes he feels like he’s already felt everything he’s ever going to feel, and that from now on he’ll only ever feel weaker, diluted versions of those very feelings.

He’s driven himself so mad that his therapist ended up prescribing him his old meds.

*

On a Monday, at around noon, he gets the call. He’s at the gallery, surrounded by a few colleagues, and he’s currently complaining about some pesky artist they’ve been working with.

“It’s unbelievable. He told me, and I quote, that it was outrageous that we take 30%. The thing is, first of all, he’s not even guaranteed to sell anything… and second, we’re possibly the ones who offer the lowest commission on the value. Any other gallery in Paris eats up at least 40%, if not half of it.”

“Brunet, wasn’t it? Old bloke who came by last Wednesday?”

“Himself,” Harry confirms. “And, like… He’s… _old_. He’s seen a thing or two… He should know by now that’s how things work. The first time we talked he told me all the other galleries pestered him with requests to change some details in his work because according to them it wouldn’t sell. And he hated it. I don’t blame him. He wanted to create, first and foremost, and then… eventually, you know… but that’s exactly why I thought I’d give him a little more freedom and flexibility… And now he turns around and says this to me… Unbelievable.”

“Reckon it’s some sort of pattern in his generation. It’s like. They’ve grown to be so entitled, they think the entire world revolves around them. Vile, the lot of them.”

“Hey, we’re not all like that,” one of them defends himself, jokingly.

A couple of laughs erupt around the room as Harry feels his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. He excuses himself and gets up from his seat.

“We love you. Of course you’re the exception…. Harry, you’ve got an appointment at three.”

“I know. I’ll be quick.”

He exits the room and heads down the hallway that leads to the bathroom. It’s from an unknown number; for a moment he considers letting it ring, but something compels him to pick up.

“ _Oui allô_?”

“Harry?” It’s a girl’s voice. It sounds familiar, but the name eludes him.

“This is he. Who am I talking to?”

“Charlotte... Remember me?”

“Charlotte... Tomlinson?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, of course I remember you.”

“Whew, then,” she lets out a sigh of relief. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“No. Are you... Are you alright? How is everyone?”

“They’re fine. We’re all good. What about you?”

“I’m okay.”

“God. How long has it been… two years, three years?”

“Something like that.” He’s grateful his nervousness doesn’t quite show over the phone; his heart is pounding against his ribs, and his mouth is drying up by the second. This call can’t possibly be good news.

“Right. Well… I’ve got news!” she says, excitedly. “I’m getting married.”

“Oh. That’s great, Lottie. I’m really happy for you. Congratulations.”

“Yes, and…Well, I want to invite you. You and your sister. I would have sent you an invitation card like everyone else, but... I’m not quite sure where you live now.”

Harry freezes. “Hey... I... Look, I really appreciate it, it means a lot to me, really it does. I’m just not sure it’s a good idea.”

“I really wish you’d come, Harry. You’ve got plenty of time to think it over. You don’t have to give me an answer right away. It will be on August 15th, at the Pavillon Royal.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Alright. Well, you’ve got my number now. Give me a call when you’ve decided, yeah?”

“Yeah sure.”

“See you soon, hopefully?”

“Yeah. Maybe, yes.”

He hangs up, knowing fully well that he came off as a little dry, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He leans against the wall, his eyes lost. For months – years now, he’d convinced himself that he’d never see him again. It was the only way to move forward, because if he kept hanging onto this tiny little sliver of hope that, somehow, someway, he’d bump into him in the streets and that they’d talk it out and make up and get back together, he would truly never move on. Now, though, it’s clear that the opposite wasn’t exactly realistic either. Given his unstable mental state, he knows that the right thing to do is to decline the invitation, as tempting as it is. He’s not had any contact with Louis’ family ever since that dreadful Christmas, and besides, he and Charlotte weren’t even that close back then. Why she bothered to invite him, he has no clue.

He goes as far as to type out _‘Why are you doing this to me?_ ’, his finger hovering over the ‘send’ button, but then he decides against it and puts his phone away.

That same evening, he rings Charlotte and lets her know he’ll be there.

On Saturday evening he’s cooking dinner in his kitchen, his phone somewhere on the counter, Gemma’s voice on speaker.

“Don’t know what came over me when I said yes… I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not,” says Gemma.

“Oh, please,” he scoffs, tasting the sauce and wincing when he burns his finger on the side of the pot. “His entire family will be there for sure. They hate my guts.”

“Well I’m pretty sure they don’t, considering his sister invited you of her own free will. Do you think that if they wanted to lynch you, they would invite you to the wedding? Actually, wait, you might be right. They could pull a Carrie on you. Drop a bucket of pig’s blood on your head right when you step in.”

“That’s not funny. You’re invited too, by the way.”

She lets out a long sigh. “Yeah… Yeah, look, I don’t know about that. I’ll have to see. It’ll be in the middle of August, and you know I’m always busy around that time of the year… And I’d have to travel all the way to Paris, and find a place to-”

“You’ll come over. I’ve got an extra room.”

“Like I said. I’ll have to see.”

“Also…” he says, just a bit quieter, stirring the sauce with a wooden spoon. “It’s not so much his family I’m worried about as him. It’s… It’s really all it boils down to. We haven’t seen each other in… like, years. The last time we spoke it was via _e-mail_. Some cold, formal, shitty exchange of paperwork for our old flat. He’d send me scanned documents that I would sign and send back to him. _C’était d’un chic...”_

“Look,” she says, growing noticeably irritated. “If Charlotte went to the trouble of inviting you herself, it means she’s fine with it. And he’s fine with it. And everybody’s fine with it. Besides, it’s just one night, yeah? One night, and then it’s over. No need to get all worked up about it.”

“Don’t want to go by myself.”

“I’ll try my best to be there.”

“I won’t go if you’re not there.”

“… Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. It’s Milo’s bedtime.”

“Tell him I miss him.”

“I will. Take care.”

She hangs up, and he finishes cooking in complete silence. He fixes himself a plate and eats in front of the TV, absentmindedly watching some boring show he somehow can’t tear his eyes from; it’s so bad it’s actually good.

As he was dozing off, he barely registers the fact that his phone’s just gone off. He looks over at the screen, and his heart stops when he realizes it’s a message from ‘Lou’. His vision goes blurry at the sight of his name, and he stands up as if by reflex. He turns off the TV and holds his breath, bracing himself for the literal _novel_ he’s written to him.

**From: Lou**

**** _Hi Harry, hope you’re well._

_My sister said you accepted her wedding invitation. I have to tell you I wasn’t even aware you were on the guest list. Even though it took me by surprise, I need you to know that I don’t mind at all. In fact, I thought we could meet up, just the two of us, and maybe have a little chat. Bumping into each other on the happiest day of my sister’s life wouldn’t be ideal if we’ve not spoken in a while. Of course you don’t have to say yes, I would totally understand if you’d rather not. I just think it’d be best for both of us if we could just sit down and talk. On my part, there’s something important I need to tell you._

_Let me know what you think. Bonne soirée._

_Louis_

He reads it again. Three times. And then drops his phone down on the sofa and goes to bed. It takes him the whole night, and half of the next day to work up the strength to text him back.

**To: Lou**

_Hey. I think that’s a good idea. When are you free?_

Louis replies an hour later.

**From: Lou**

_I’ve nothing planned on Wednesday. And I’m free on Friday after 1._

**To: Lou**

_Friday sounds good. Are you still in Paris?_

**From: Lou**

_Yes. 2 Moulins, 4-ish?_

**To: Lou**

_Sounds good. See you then._

*

The night before he gets no sleep. He tosses and turns in his bed until morning, too nervous to doze off, his mind running a mile a minute. He considers canceling, runs through this list of shitty excuses he’s stored in his notes app for whenever he doesn’t feel like going out anymore. Eventually he talks himself out of the safe, easy option. He knows he’ll hate himself if he passes up on this truly once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Louis’ basically throwing him a lifeline and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take it.

A little before four o’clock, he’s pacing around his flat, fresh off the shower and so wired already he can’t seem to decide on an outfit. His entire wardrobe lays on his bed and even on the ground. He’s practically tried everything on, and he hates himself for it because he feels like he’s getting ready for a first date. It shouldn’t even matter what he wears or looks like, yet somehow it does, deep down. He keeps telling himself Louis won’t care, that they’re just meant to sit down and talk, and then part again, but he just can’t bring himself to believe it. Besides, he’d mentioned he had something important to tell him. God knows he doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but it’s there, and it’s itching so bad.

He finally settles for some light washed jeans and a loose, oversized button-up shirt, opened at the collar. He stares himself down in the mirror, not entirely satisfied. But he’s running late, so he grabs his keys and leaves.

He gets to the Café des 2 Moulins at 3:50. He sits on a bench inside, at the very back, his fingers nervously drumming on the wood, his foot shaking under the table. He orders a coffee and regrets it a mere split second after the waiter’s turned around – caffeine mixed with his current state is bound to mess him up.

He gets a text after a while.

**From: Lou**

_Running a bit late, sorry. Half an hour tops._

**To: Lou**

_That’s okay, I’ll wait for you inside._

Louis sees his reply but doesn’t answer.

He’d give just about anything for a cigarette right now.

At 4:16, when he’s grown restless enough to seriously consider calling the whole thing off and running back home, Louis finally walks through the door.

A warm, familiar feeling spreads through his chest, and suddenly he doesn’t feel so sick anymore. Seeing him is like coming home after a long day. It’s invigorating, soothing, and scary all at once, because he’d never actually gone back to what he used to call home.

Louis’ looking for him, searching the place with his eyes. He’s wearing a white Ralph Lauren shirt that suits him so well, a jarring contrast to his beautiful, sun-kissed skin. _Summer was his season_. His hair is styled up, and he’s even got a bit of stubble. When their eyes finally meet, Harry stops breathing. A tiny smile sketches itself on Louis’ lips as he approaches. Harry stands up, they kiss other on the cheek, and Louis takes the time to apologize, “Sorry I’m late, should’ve left a bit earlier. It’s always crowded at that time of day, you know how it is.”

Harry sits down without a word, and Louis settles across from him. They stare at each other, lost in silent contemplation. Time stands still.

“You okay?” Louis asks.

“Not going to lie, I’m a bit nervous.”

Louis just smiles at him. “Don’t be. I’ll be nice.”

“You... you want to order?”

“Sure, I could use some coffee.”

Harry calls the waiter over, and tries not to dwell on the fact that Louis orders the exact same thing as him. He promised himself he wasn’t going to daydream and wallow in self-pity, but he can’t help but stare longingly at the man before him, and reminisce. He’s even more beautiful than he remembered, and seeing him right there, so close and yet so out of the way is crushing him in the most devastating way. He recalls their years together, all they’ve had, and all they’ve lost because of him. He knows he has to speak up now. So he does.

“You’ve taken your earring out.”

“Yeah,” Louis smiles, touching the –now –empty lobe of his ear. “I just feel like it’s no longer who I am. I loved it, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dunno. It’s run its course, I suppose.”

“You grew a beard too.”

“I did.”

“You used to spend hours in the bathroom, just… shaving everything off ‘cause you _hated_ hair.”

“That’s true,” he laughs and smiles coyly as he scratches his cheek a little. “You like it?”

“I love it.”

“It makes me look a lot older, though, doesn’t it?... I think it does. But I felt like trying out something new. I don’t know. I like it.”

“It suits you.”

“To be fair I feel like I’m just making things worse for myself. The other day I found a white hair, can you imagine… I’m getting so old. Look,” he tilts his head a bit, running his fingers along his hair. “It must be in there somewhere. See it?”

Harry leans over the table, “Oh, yeah. I can see it. It’s all alone, though.”

“Still. It’s depressing, really. Mind you, I’ll be turning thirty soon. I was told the white hair might have been due to a lot of stress… I don’t think so. My life’s actually pretty calm. Smooth sailing and all that.”

Harry’s constant smile is hurting his cheeks now. Louis’ far less intimidating than he was in his messages. And it’s reassuring. The waiter comes back with the coffee, Louis takes a sip, and points out, “I’ve never seen your hair this short. Ever.”

“You liked it long,” he says, quietly.

“I did,” he confesses. “But you look good, still. You always do. A bit unfair, if you ask me.”

“You look good, too,” he says, and it’s so quiet it comes out as almost a whisper.

Louis just sips on his coffee, allowing his eyes to wander over him. He looks over at Harry’s hand on the table. His rings. His black nail-polish. He makes no comment but he smiles and remembers how Harry liked to paint his nails once in a while. He’d do it at home, he’d feel pretty and Louis would always be impressed at how skilled he was, and then he’d wipe it all off before heading out. He never dared to go out like this.

They make small talk at first, as the conversation revolves around Charlotte and her upcoming wedding, her fiancé and her life, and then Gemma’s brought up. Louis asks him about Milo and it’s all it takes for Harry to pull out his phone and run him through his entire camera roll, full of pictures of the now five-year-old child.

“It’s bloody amazing how much how you two look alike,” Louis notes with a tender smile. “You looked exactly like him when you were a kid. The smile, the nose, the eyes… and yeah, wait, go back… See? The dimple?”

“Yeah… Yeah, I guess I can see it. I love him,” he concludes, clicking his phone shut. “It’s hard not to go overboard with the cuddles when I see him.”

“How often do you get to see him?”

“Not that often. I’d say… twice, or three times a year. Christmas for sure. And usually once in the summer. And when there’s not much to do here I take a train back to Bordeaux.”

“Oh, yeah, by the way, are you still working at the Halle des Vignes?”

“I _own_ the Halle des Vignes.”

Louis rolls his eyes jokingly. “My apologies.”

“It wasn’t easy. They kept saying I was too young to handle all this but... I stood up for myself and proved them wrong.”

“Rolling in it, aren’t you, now?” he asks, teasingly.

“Um. Well… I’m doing… Okay. Pretty good. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“Just say you’re rich and go.”

Harry just chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “I’m… comfortable.”

“Yeah, right. You still like it?”

“Oh, yeah. So much. I’ve met tons of people over the years. I just love meeting artists when they’re in the middle of their… creative process. I’ve been in the field, I’ve seen things. I know what it’s like to want to create and then be hit with constraints. The world of art, nowadays, that’s just how it is. So I take risks. I like to give them a little freedom of expression. I can witness all this and watch them grow, and learn with them, it’s fascinating.”

Only when he’s finished does he realize that he’s rambled. But Louis hasn’t taken his eyes off of him for one second. He would nod once in a while. “That’s brilliant. That must be really rewarding. I mean, it’s amazing that you feel fulfilled in your career. And meanwhile, it’s like, some people are just so miserable in life all because they’re doing a job they hate, that their parents picked for them. I think it’s sad. At the end of the day, it’s _your_ life, isn’t it? Not your parents’.”

“Yeah, that’s true. My mum didn’t approve of it at first. I’m glad I tuned her out for most of life as a student. Remember how she’d make those little comments back when I was in school?”

“Oh, yeah, it was just awful. But you did so well, I hope she’s proud at least. By the way, I saw you on TV once,” he says excitedly, pointing at him. “It was an interview, wasn’t it? It was for…”

“Oh, that. Yeah. The feature on the culture channel. I thought it’d be a lot longer, actually. They’ve cut most of my speech. I felt like I was being censored when I watched it.”

“I’m… Impressed. Really. It was brilliant.”

“Thanks. What about you? Have you managed to open your firm”

“Yes,” he nods. “With a friend. With, uh… Sean. Remember Sean?”

“I do.”

“Well, there you have it. It was a bit of a gamble at first, we weren’t sure of anything. We struggled a lot, but it paid off, and… here we are. Here I am.”

There’s a beat of silence. They both know what’s left to discuss, and none of them seem to want to take the first step. Harry downs the last of his coffee, and Louis asks for the bill. And then, when the silence has become almost unbearable, Louis dares to throw the million-dollar question at him.

“So… Is there anyone in your life?” he asks, cautiously, toying with his receipt.

Harry just shakes his head. “No. Since you… there hasn’t been anyone stable. Nothing you could describe as concrete. I’m just… passing time.”

“Have you redownloaded Grindr, then?”

“Um,” he can’t help but blush a little. “It does help. But, as I said, I’ve not, like… Properly dated anybody. What about you?”

When he asks this, it’s so casual and nonchalant anyone would think he’s way past the point of moving on. It’s not like he’s spent months wondering whether Louis has found someone else – he has. He has, and it’s embarrassing how it tortures him to know that one day, he’ll be replaced. He dreads his answer, chewing nervously on his bottom lip. Louis opens his mouth to answer, pauses to think about his words, and then, “If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I’d have said ‘nobody’. But… I met someone?”

His entire world shatters right there. Harry smiles to hide the fact that everything inside him has just burst into flames. He doesn’t say anything, so Louis continues.

“He’s an engineer. Met him at Félicité’s birthday. She had this big party at her place in Geneva. Mind you, I didn’t know _anybody_. He was there. He saw me alone in a corner, and then he came to talk to me and… well, we talked,” he laughs. “All night. Non-stop. It just feels so good to be around someone who still finds a way to have an excitement about the world. I like the way he looks at things. It just… yeah. It feels really good, because I’ve spent months… years now, just pushing people away ‘cause I was afraid I might get hurt… again. But with him it was just so obvious and easy to give in. And, well, I did. Give in.”

Louis gives him a pale, faint smile and a shrug. Harry bites the inside of his cheeks and tries his best to hold it all in. Under the table, his nails are digging into the palm of his hand. “That’s great,” he breathes, voice stiff. “Are you two a thing, then?”

“I think so. We’ve not made it official or anything. But we probably will soon. I have to say, I’m terrified. Terrified of starting from scratch and doing this thing all over again. I still have trouble trusting him completely. Him, or anybody for that matter. But I really, really like him. So I’m giving him a chance. I might regret it, but life’s too fucking short, you know.”

Harry’s fallen quiet for good now. And he’s trying so, so hard not to break down. They’re just staring at each other in silence.

Louis takes a deep breath.

“Harry, listen.”

And those two words are enough to make Harry’s eyes well up with tears. He doesn’t cry, though. Doesn’t say anything, just waits.

“I wanted to apologize. It was horrible of me to talk to you like I did that day. I shouldn’t have said those things to you, even if I was angry with you. See… That night… I just can’t seem to get over it. I’ll be fine for a while and then I get reminded of it and it’s like… it’s always there at the back of my mind, replaying in a loop. And I’m… I need you to know that this isn’t the kind of person I am. I don’t want you to go about your life with that image of me in your head. I’m truly, truly sorry. That’s… mainly why I wanted to meet up. To apologize properly.”

It’s just when he’s finished talking that Harry realizes he’s been holding his breath the entire time. As he exhales and lets it all out, two tears run down his cheeks. Louis pauses for a while, and continues.

“The thing is… The more I think about it, the more I realize that things hadn’t been going well between us for a while anyway. It was a matter of… weeks, months at best, maybe, and you… You just sped it up a bit, that’s all. I mean, yeah, it was fucking disgusting, the way you went about it, but… I’m sure we would’ve split up sooner or later no matter what. What do you think?”

Harry shakes his head, sniffling. “I don’t know. I don’t like to think about it.”

“You don’t agree?”

He shakes his head no, holding back new tears. Louis looks just as upset.

“I miss you, Lou,” he whispers, his voice strangled, and catches Louis’ hand between his own, on the table. “Don’t you miss me?”

Louis bites his lip as his eyes start to fill with tears. He doesn’t answer.

“I’m so fucking lonely. I hate living alone. I miss you so much… I was your baby, remember?”

“Please, don’t,” he says, though he makes no effort to take his hand back. “Don’t do that.”

“We were good together. And I took such good care of you, didn’t I? We were so good. It was just a rough patch, you know. We still loved each other. I know I did… I still do. I could love you ‘til the day I die. I know it. You’re the only one I loved in my life. I’ll never love anybody else but you.”

It seems to them that the world has faded. The café’s empty. The sun has gone out. It’s quiet all of a sudden. No more voices, no more laughter, no more clinking glasses and utensils. There’s only them, under the dimmed light of the lamp above their table, like an isolated scene in the middle of a play.

“We were so good,” he says again. “Remember how good we were together?”

Louis nods softly. It takes him a while but he collects himself eventually, snaps out of that deceitful nostalgia bubble they’ve created, and pulls his hand out of Harry’s grip.

“I’m sorry,” he just says, and dries the tears that never fell. “I can’t.”

“You don’t love me anymore?” he asks, warily, his voice so stifled and rough it pierces right through his heart.

Still, and with no hesitation, Louis shakes his head. “No,” he says, assuredly, because leading him on right now is the last thing he wants. “I don’t love you anymore. I’m not in love with you. But I really did… love you. You can be sure of that. I’ve known you all my life. As far as I can remember, I’ve known you. You’ve always been a part of me. The _most beautiful_ part of me. You know I’ll… I’ll always have a soft spot for you. I wish you nothing but happiness. I mean you no harm. And I don’t want you to think you’re alone. I wish I’d never said that to you. You’re not alone. I know you’re not, you’ll never be.”

And Harry wants to believe him. Wants to let his words seep into him but they make him suffer just as much as they soothe him. He’s in pain. It’s deep and it’s spreading, and all the wounds he thought were closed have just reopened. The questions he thought he’d solved just resurfaced, despite the countless nights he’d lied awake, wondering what in the world was wrong with him. He’s never even found a satisfactory answer. He always assumed there was this sort of imbalance in their relationship. And it’s been there since day one. It hurts to think its roots crawled all the way back to the very beginning, because Louis had always been a thousand times more mature and down-to-earth than he was, and that couldn’t possibly be compatible with his own illusions and his frankly stupid idealized vision of love. Maybe, he thinks, they’ve not built this thing on solid foundations. It’s all started out as a simple, though strong, physical attraction, and it was too late when they realized they really didn’t have much in common.

His head is spinning and he feels like he might vomit. He follows Louis with his eyes when he gets up and circles around the table. He stands up in turn, takes him in his arms, practically melting into him. They hold each other for so long, by the time they pull apart his tears have dried up and he can breathe normally again.

“It was so good to see you, Harry.”

“Yeah… You too.”

“I’m going to go now. Unless you’ve got something else to say.”

He says nothing, just wipes the rest of his tears with the back of his sleeves.

“I’ll see you at the wedding then, yeah?”

Harry nods.

“Au revoir, alors.”

Harry stands in the middle of the way, watching as he leaves, walking out the door and blending in with the people on the busy street. And when he disappears, he feels like Louis’s taken a part of his body along with him. Like he’s missing an entire limb, mangled and bleeding out, and no one seems to care.

*

It’s August 15th, Charlotte’s wedding day.

It’s a sunny morning, with a promising heat but a cool breeze gently blowing. It’s early enough; the sun is up though its rays are still shy. They beam down the old zinc roofs of the city without overwhelming it for now. Harry’s sitting on one of his balcony chairs, shirtless, his sweatpants riding low on his hips, his feet crossed over the other chair, with a newspaper in his hand and half of a cigarette in the other. He skims over the paragraphs, barely retaining any information.

He’s doing better – loads better in fact and oddly enough it’s been looking brighter ever since he saw him. Now when he gets reminded of Louis, it doesn’t hurt as much. He doesn’t feel the need to harm himself like he used to. Doesn’t feel like crying as much. It’s happened slowly, since the day they met up at the café, almost two months ago. That first evening he’d felt an irresistible urge to throw himself into the Seine – today, though, he finds the idea absurd.

Down below, the street comes to life. People talking, laughing, cars honking, motorcycles driving.

Inside his room, he hears his message tone. He puts out the rest of his cigarette, puts down his newspaper and heads inside, immediately reaching for his phone on the bedside table. In his bed lays a young woman he’d met the day before at the vernissage of a gallery in the Marais. He’d brought her home at the end of the night. She’s still sound asleep, cozied up in the sheets – her long, golden hair the only thing visible. He curses himself. He’s forgotten her name already.

He quietly walks out of the room and reads the message.

**From: Gemma**

_Every time I go to Paris I remember why I hate it so much. Don’t know how you do it._

He smiles and types a reply.

**To: Gemma**

_Are you there yet?_

**From: Gemma**

_Duh… Should be here in twenty minutes, if I make it out alive._

**To: Gemma**

_Want crêpes?_

**From: Gemma**

_No thank you – too anxious to eat anything_

**To: Gemma**

_I’m making crêpes._

He leaves it at that, and hops in the shower before heading into the kitchen to make breakfast. He knows she’s going to yield at some point.

As he’s flipping the third crêpe over on the pan, the girl from last night joins him, her steps so light and quiet he doesn’t realize she's here until she clears her throat. She’s still naked under the white sheets she’s wrapped around her body. He takes a quick glance at her over his shoulder.

“Hi. Slept well?”

“Oh, yeah. What are you making?”

“…Crêpes.”

She smiles and takes a seat on one of the wooden chairs by the table. “It smells amazing.”

He keeps quiet, and for a while, so does she. She contemplates him in silence, coming to terms with the fact that he’s not very talkative in the morning – or at all, for that matter, he’d not said much last night. Meanwhile, he doesn’t dare to ask for her name, he’s too ashamed, even though this isn’t even the first time it’s happened to him.

Out of the blue, he says, “I have a wedding today.”

“That’s nice. Who’s getting married?”

“My ex’s sister.”

“Oh. Well that’s… a little awkward, isn’t it? Is she fine with it? I mean your ex.”

“He.”

“… Right,” she says after a beat, nodding to herself. She can’t recall whether he’d told her he wasn’t straight or if it had just slipped her mind.

“Mh. It’s fine. We’re good.”

“Could I… use your shower?”

“Yeah, ‘course. The bathroom’s right next to the bedroom. There’s… I think there’s clean towels in the cupboard by the sink. If not, just let me know, I’ll get you some.”

While the stranger’s still in the shower, the doorbell rings, and Harry practically runs to the door to greet Gemma and take her luggage.

“Um…” she says, frowning in confusion. “Is there someone else here?” she asks when she hears the water running.

“Uh-huh,” he nods, setting her bags down in his living room and clearing out the couch.

“Who is it?” she asks as a sly smile sketches itself on her lips.

“Not gonna lie, I don’t know.”

“Is it a boy?”

“No.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Like, her name?” she whispers down low, inching closer.

He heads over to his balcony and opens the doors wide, letting in a bit of fresh air. “She did tell me her name, I just forgot. We met yesterday. Had sex… And that’s it.”

“Aren’t you ashamed…”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

Gemma takes a seat on one of the couches and they just stare at each other until she burst out laughing. She collects herself eventually, and asks, “Bringing girls home now, huh?”

“I mean, where else should I bring them?”

“Is that, like a regular thing you do?”

“No,” he frowns. “Not with girls, at least. I hardly ever go for girls. I like men better. Sleeping with them, that is. None of the other stuff.”

“Right, okay. Okay. I’ve heard enough,” she chuckles, pulling out her phone when she gets an alert. “Look. I have an appointment at the hairdresser’s in an hour.”

“Eat then. Please. I’ve made breakfast,” he points at the full tray on the coffee table.

And even though she’s not hungry in the least, she digs in, just for him. “You miss taking care of someone, don’t you?” she points out, pouring herself a cup of steaming coffee.

He comes and sits down beside her. “Sort of.”

“Mmmm… So good,” she moans after her first bite. “You added extra vanilla. _C’est délicieux_.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Hey,” she says, wiping her mouth with a tea towel. “I was thinking. You should adopt a dog. Or a cat. Or just anything to keep you company.”

“You do realize you’ve just made me feel so much worse by saying this?”

“But I’m serious. You’re in need of affection, and trust me it shows.”

“What, just ‘cause I made you breakfast?”

She lets out a discouraged sigh. “Whatever. Thank you for the food. You should be a cook.”

Right then, the bathroom door opens, letting out a cloud of steam as the young woman walks out, dressed in a white towel, her hair still soaked. She grinds to a halt when she sees Harry and his sister in the living room. Gemma greets her with her mouth still full.

“Oh, hey!” she gets up and kisses her on the cheeks. “Hello. I’m Gemma… Sorry,” she puts her hand in front of her mouth and swallows her bite. “I’m Gemma. Harry’s sister. And you are…?”

“Héloïse… Nice to meet you.”

Gemma turns to her brother and gives him a knowing look, as if saying “you’re bloody welcome”. Héloïse excuses herself and disappears into the room to get dressed. She gets out rather quickly, and refuses politely to have breakfast with them. She’s excepted somewhere this morning, or so she says. Before she leaves, Harry catches up with her and they exchange numbers. She smiles warmly at him, and he lets her go after a quick, innocent kiss.

Gemma stands in the hallway, unimpressed. “Are you really going to call her?”

“No.”

*

He’s used to big events, he’s used to dress to impress. He likes dressing up, the whole process of it, he appreciates the looks her gets on a night out or at a function – people would give him side-glances, eye him down in a plain, curious, and amused way.

He’s in his room, examining his look in the mirror. He’s dressed in a black suit, nothing out of the ordinary. Of course, he owns more colorful, daring ones. Solid white, navy blue, striped, patterned, velvet, textured ones, too. Only today his only goal is to go unnoticed, so he keeps it simple.

As he stares at his own reflection, a single thought creeps into his mind, and it’s instant peace. He realizes that he hasn’t once thought about Louis while he was getting ready. He hasn’t laid out his outfit and gotten dressed in the hope that he’d like it. He hasn’t styled his hair, shaved, or put on perfume while wishing to see that little gleam in his eyes, the one he loved so much.

This is huge. So much bigger than he cared to admit. He thinks he might be moving on at long last. However, there was only one way to be sure. And it was by looking Louis straight in the eye, seeing his smile and hearing his laugh, and then being able to tell himself that this is no longer what he wanted, or needed.

“Au Pavillon Royal, s’il vous plaît.” Gemma tells the taxi driver.

Between them, sitting on the bench are the gifts for Charlotte.

Harry looks out the window, watching the city through the glass, his arm resting against the door.

His fourteen-year-old self lived through a moment that wasn’t much different than this one. He remembers everything. That first summer, on the drive to the airport, his sister sitting next to him, his mind so numbingly empty, unaware of what awaited him.

The Pavillion is sublime. He doesn't feel out of place, now he's used to luxurious, mind-blowing scenery. He's not familiar with half of the guests. Still, he makes a point in being polite, he greets the people he recognizes, smiles at them and makes small talk, as he usually does. Louis’ young sisters approach him. It doesn’t seem like there’s any lingering resentment, and it’s so nice to catch up with them he even forgets what went down, at some point. The girls smile at him, kiss him, and ask about his life.

The little ones, as everybody used to call them, are anything but little, now. They’re fifteen years old, and Harry sees a little bit of Louis in each of them.

But it’s not enough, of course. He looks for his whole, entire being, and finds him beside a taller man, whose arm is thrown around his waist. Louis’ dressed in a well-tailored black suit, in deep conversation with two older women. He takes it they’re officially together now, that Louis’ left all his insecurities behind and decided to give him a chance.

Harry doesn’t go near him. He stands by Gemma’s side throughout the entire ceremony.

Charlotte looks beautiful in her dress – she cries at the altar and apologizes. Not that anyone minds. Half of the room is also in tears, empathizing with her. Her mother isn’t even here to see her on the most beautiful day of her life.

The reception is dreamy, it lasts well into the night. Strings of fairy lights are stretched across the courtyard and all the guests seem to be having a great time, drinking, laughing, dancing and toasting.

Harry loses sight of Gemma after a while and finds himself alone, a flute of Moët & Chandon in his hand, leaning against the edge of a pink marble fountain.

And that’s when they find each other again. A little further, Louis spots him. Their eyes meet, Louis smiles and raises his glass at him, Harry does the same. He thinks for a moment that Louis will motion for him to come – a few, breathless seconds when time stands still for them, in the midst of the crowd and the music and the laughter.

He doesn’t.

Louis turns around, lets himself be carried away by this man, hand in hand.

When it’s finally settled that he’s got nothing left to do here, Harry walks out. He leaves the building, lights a cigarette and, through the semi-darkness, goes down the road from La Muette à Neuilly to get out of the Bois de Boulogne.

And he’s not even cold. He’s not afraid, he’s not sad, his heart isn’t heavy – in fact he feels as free as anything.


End file.
